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THE SHADOW 

OF 

HILTON FERNBROOK 


B Romance of Ittaoriland 


ATHA WESTBURY 

it 



New Amsterdam Book Company 

I56 FIFTH AVENUE 


London — CHATTO & WINDUS 










THE SHADOW OF 

HILTON FERNBROOK. 


PROLOGUE. 

THE BURNING SCHOONER. 

On the evening of December 10, 18 — , the “Durham 
Castle,” merchantman, 2,000 tons register, lay like a 
huge log upon the waters, in the breathless stillness of 
a tropical afternoon, when the air was hot and heavy, 
and the sky brazen and cloudless; there was not a 
puff of wind to ruffle the surface of the ocean, upon 
which the ship rose and fell with the monotony of a 
clock’s pendulum. 

The sun had just got low enough* to peep beneath 
the awning that covered the poop deck, and spread 
his rays athwart the figure of a man asleep on the 
cabin skylight. Save for the man at the wheel, and 
another at the quarter railing, the sleeper was alone on 
the deck. In the absence of a breeze, the ship rolled 
and lurched on the heaving sea, her idle sails flapping 
against the mast with a regular recurring noise, and 
her bowsprit rising higher with the swell of the water, 
only to dip again the next moment with a jerk that 
made each rope tremble and tauten. 


5 


6 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


The “ Durham Castle ” had been sixty-five days out 
from the Land’s End, and was fast approaching her 
destination, when a d6ad, sleepy calm environed the 
vessel, as if she had entered the Dead Sea. The ap- 
pearance of the ship differed in nowise from that of an 
ordinary ocean liner, except perhaps that she carried 
a more than ordinary complement of passengers. The 
intense heat had driven them below, some to indulge 
in cards and other games, some to read, and the re- 
mainder to sleep, like the man reposing on the sky- 
light. By and by, as the sun sunk lower down on 
the vast area of golden azure, this personage awoke. 
Stretching himself, after the manner of a ponderous 
ape, he threw a quick glance upward at the flapping 
sails, and then called out — 

“ For’ard there ! ” 

“Ay, ay, Capt’n,” replied the man forward. 

“Pass the word for Mr. Jones,” he cried; then rising 
and advancing towards the binnacle, he said, “ No sign 
of a change yet, Benson.” 

“ None whatever, Captain,” responded the man at the 
wheel. “There isn’t as much wind as would fill a 
paper balloon.” 

Mr. Jones, the chief officer of the “Durham Castle,” 
a bandy-legged, big-bearded, gruff- voiced son of Nep- 
tune, waddled on deck, and drew near his superior 
officer, Captain Jepp Bowman. 

“ Reef the topsails, and haul fast the foresheet and 
jib, Mr. Jones; we may as well make everything snug 
for the night,” said the Skipper. 

The commotion overhead roused the attention of 
the passengers, who flocked on deck to watch, and 
some to help the crew in taking in sail. Many were 
there who cast anxious looks over the broad expanse 


THE BURNING SCHOONER. 


7 


of water, in search of the first glimpse of that new 
land which for the future was to be their home. 
Others there were, and of these not a few, who were 
returning home again, from a visit to that older and 
former home. The colonist, the emigrant, the needy, 
and the well-to-do, all crowded together, to watch the 
sun go down into the vast sea in all his glory of crim- 
son and gold. 

“How many days before we reach port, Captain?” 
asks a tall, burly sheep-farmer, returning to his station 
on the Patea, from a trip to Scotland. 

“Well, I reckon, if we have no better wind than 
we’ve had lately, we shall reach Auckland about Tib’s 
Eve, which, by the way, is neither before nor after 
Christmas,” replied he, laughing. 

“ Oh, but I trust to eat my Christmas dinner at 
Glenbrook, with the Missus and wee-uns,” added the 
farmer. 

“ I hope so,” rejoined Captain Bowman ; “ a cat’s- 
paw will waft us into port, if we can only get it.” 

“Then, we are near land?” 

“ Very near. According to my calculations, the 
Great Barrier is not a hundred knots distant; I ex- 
pect to sight its peak every hour.” 

The news soon spread, and when the dinner-bell 
rang, there assembled a gladsome array of faces in the 
saloon and in the fore-part of the ship, to congratulate 
each other that the end of the long and tedious voyage 
was drawing near. 

Darkness came apace, with hosts of stars, which were 
mirrored on the bosom of the glassy sea, giving it the 
appearance of some wonderful floor studded with dia- 
monds. On deck the passengers were standing in 
knots, laughing and chatting and smoking. 


8 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“ Fine night,” said one of these — a well-made, sol- 
dierly-looking old gentleman, striding up to the 
Captain, and joining his pace with that of the 
Skipper. 

“No signs of a breeze yet, though, Colonel Lan- 
groove.” 

“ How provoking ! ” 

Just then, from out of the violet haze that hung over 
the horizon a strange glare of light broke. 

“ Hallo ! ” cried the Colonel. “ Did you see that?” 

Captain Bowman rubbed his eyes. “ I saw it dis- 
tinctly — a flash of light.” Every one on deck had 
seen it. 

“ Mr. Tremaine, the second officer, saw something 
like that before dinner. There must be thunder in the 
air,” responded the Captain, as he passed into his cabin 
for his night-glass. 

Ere the Skipper returned, a thin streak of light shot 
up for an instant, then sank again. The Captain had 
seen it. Placing his glass in the direction, he looked 
long and carefully. 

“What is it, sir?” interrogated the Colonel. 

“ I can hardly make it out,” replied the Captain, still 
looking intently through his glass. “There seems to 
rest a tiny black cloud on the extreme edge of the 
western horizon ; and if it was not for the crimson 
sky, I should say there was flame with the cloud.” 

“ What, fire ? — not fire ? ” 

“ Ay ! ” 

An hour later one simultaneous exclamation burst 
from all the watchers on deck. From out the gloom 
there rose a column of flame, that lit up the night for 
the space of three seconds, and then fell, leaving a dull 
red spark upon the water. 


THE BURNING SCHOONER. 


9 


“It is a ship on fire, gentlemen ! ” cried the Captain, 
and in the same breath an order was given to lower a 
boat. 

The long-boat was in the water in a few minutes, 
and Mr. Jones stood by the gangway awaiting further 
orders from his chief. 

“ She does not appear to be a very large ship,” re- 
sponded the Captain, in answer to a question put by 
someone near. “ A fore and aft schooner, I should say 
by the cut of her ; but she is a long way to leeward, a 
good ten miles or more. Mr. Jones ! ” 

“ Ay, ay, sir.” 

“ Put a keg of water and a flask of brandy aboard, 
then call the watch.” 

“ Poor devils ! they will be roasted like chestnuts,” 
muttered the Colonel, as the glow in the sky became 
more and more intense. 

“ They’ve got their own boats,” said Captain Bow- 
man, coolly ; “ and you may be certain they will make 
use of them. In the meantime, I’ll show them that 
there’s someone near. There ! they’ll see that,” he 
added, as a rocket rose upward with its ghastly flame 
into the air. 

“Mr. Jones, man the long-boat with six men. You 
may take a volunteer or two from among these gentle- 
men willing to go with you.” 

In a moment a score proffered their services, but 
only a relay for the six oars was selected, and the boat 
pushed off into the darkness. 

The sea appeared oil rather than water. Huge, 
foamless billows rolled onward without a sound, save 
for the dip of oars, which was re-echoed in space by a 
succession of strange impressions like voices. The men 
pulled with a will. As the oars struck the dark ele- 


10 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

ment it flashed fire, and the track of the boat resem- 
bled a sea snake writhing through a lake of silver. 

“ Give way, lads ! ” urged the mate, with a cheery 
voice, and the rowers, with set teeth and compressed 
lips, propelled the little vessel along with the speed of 
a steam yacht. By-and-by they were in a cloud of 
smoke, which hung over the crimsoned waters, and the 
order was given to ease off a little. The burning ship 
was close at hand now. Mr. J ones wondered that no 
boats had been met with. Raising his voice, he bade 
his exhausted crew lay on their oars, then hailed the 
burning vessel. 

She was a large, clumsily-built schooner, with great 
breadth of beam. Though the fire had only been seen 
but an hour or two ago by those on the “ Durham 
Castle,” the craft was already a wreck, and appeared 
completely deserted. Amidships and the lower deck 
were one mass of flame. Her ports presented great 
charred rifts and gaps, where the red-hot fire glowed 
as through the bars of a gigantic furnace. The masts 
had gone by the board, and trailed a blackened wreck 
on the water. The flames still roared like a cataract, 
amidst huge volumes of smoke, which rolled away like 
a cloud over the sea. 

The mate pulled slowly round the stern and hailed 
the deck again and again. Still there was no answer, 
though the flood of light that dyed the water showed 
out every spar and rope as distinct and clear as noon- 
day. 

“ What is her name, men ? Can you see it ? ” roared 
the mate through his hands, as the boat drew nearer. 
One of the men in the bow stood up, and shading his 
eyes with his hands, called out ; 

It is the ‘ Seagull,’ sir ! ” 


THE BURNING SCHOONER. 


11 


“ The 4 Seagull ! ’ From where ? ” 

44 Sydney,” cried the bowman, amid the roar of the 
flames. 

44 That will do. Back water, my men. Round with 
her. There is not a living soul here,” cried the officer, 
and he gave the order to pull back to the 44 Durham 
Castle.” 

Mr. Jones was mistaken. 

Through the gloom, and shrouded in the cloud of 
thick smoke, two men lay-to in a boat. The oars were 
in their hands, but they did not use them. With 
straining eyes these two personages watched the move- 
ments of Mr. Jones and his companions with all-ab- 
sorbing interest. Once when the mate passed near, 
on his return, one of them put out his hand, as if to 
call out, but the other, with a quick movement, seizing 
him by the throat, and muttering in an angry tone, 
44 Fool ! would you betray us ? ” held him down until 
the rescuers had passed by and left the lurid mass but 
a red speck in the distance. 

When day broke, and the 44 Durham Castle ” appeared 
but a speck upon the vast surface of waters, these two 
solitary men hoisted an old tattered sail they had with 
them in the boat and sailed away from the charred 
wreck of the ill-fated schooner, steering a course al- 
most due west. 


12 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FEKNBROOK. 


CHAPTER I. 

FERNBROOK. 

No spot in the whole southern hemisphere can boast 
such a bold, rugged, and imposing coast-line as New 
Zealand. On its most northern ledge towers the Great 
Barrier Rock — the point on which the ocean-tossed 
mariner first rests his eye — the first land seen when 
bearing up for Maoriland. A strange land this. 
Along its shores the vision encounters huge and mystic 
shapes at every turn of the sea wall : here the Colossus 
of Rhodes, there a ponderous Sphinx, rising sheer up 
above its fellows, and whose base has been lapped by 
the restless waves for a thousand years. 

Truly a strange country is this of Te Waito, the 
Maori, and the most mystic and awe-inspiring spot of 
all is that of the Barrier Rock. Save the fire mount- 
ain of Tongafiro, it is the grandest and also the high- 
est point in New Zealand. It is a gigantic mount, as 
large as Gibraltar, and equally ringed in by the sea, 
except at the western end, where there is a narrow 
strip of kauri forest, which links it with the main- 
land. 

Viewed from the sea the Barrier represents the ap- 
pearance of an exact cone, up to within* fifty yards of 
its summit. There the sloping ends. Beyond, it is 
treeless, and as bare and bald as the crown of a friar ; 
otherwise the sides of the giant guardian of Maoriland 
are densely wooded to the water’s edge. 


FERNBROOK. 


18 


Singular, indeed, betimes, is the treeless summit. 
Seamed and scarred, its surface is mottled with a dark 
glaze, which, during the sunlight, and even under the 
mellower beams of the moon, gives forth a coruscation, 
as if the lights were reflected from scale armor. Riven 
rocks, with deep yawning chasms, are everywhere 
around it, and the strange glow is over all. No 
northern painter in primeval day ever dreamed of 
forms so mighty, so grotesque, as seem to look down 
upon you from the rocks around. It requires only a 
very meagre stretch of the imagination to people these 
heights and depths with a race of Titans, to conjure 
up the sculptor at his work, rude though it may be, 
after all the countless ages that have passed. 

On the southern side of the Barrier, and within a 
mile of that narrow neck of earth which joins the 
great rock to the mainland, stood a large and solidly- 
built mansion. Its position was a broad sloping ridge, 
which ran parallel with the base of the mount for more 
than half its entire length, overlooking a lovely valley. 
The architectural style of this building was almost as 
quaint and as strong as the natural walls of rocks sur- 
rounding it. 

Thirty years previous to the opening of this story, 
Colonel Harry Fernbrook — a handsome, dashing spend- 
thrift, who had run through a large fortune in London 
— sold his commission, and with the money emigrated 
to New Zealand and purchased the Barrier Rock and 
adjacent land from old Te Huri, the Maori chieftain, 
and there made his future home. 

The Colonel, who was a bachelor, had not been set- 
tled over a twelvemonth at the Rock ere he fell in love 
with and married Myra Hilton, a half-caste Maori girl 
of great beauty and an heiress to immense wealth. 


14 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

One son only was the issue of this marriage, Hilton 
Fernbrook. The boy was sixteen years old when he 
lost his parents by a boating accident off the Barrier 
during a squall, and the responsibility of the youth’s 
personal welfare devolved upon Rita — a tall, silent 
Maori woman, who had been Mrs. Fernbrook’s nurse 
and chief domestic. 

A bold, weird-looking landscape is this around the 
Barrier Rock, with its glistening pinnacles, its far-re- 
ceding peaks, and downs of worn rock, with the set- 
ting sun full upon them— and lighting up many a 
gloomy dell below. Here where the sun glinted upon 
the face of the cliff, an Iris might be seen shining 
amidst the fleece-like vapor, but rarely did human eye 
behold this beautiful phenomenon, for the place had 
the reputation of being haunted. 

Few there are in our day who believe in ghosts. 
This go-ahead era of telephones and telegraphs has 
grown out of all that. We have become too matter- 
of-fact and practical for such humbug. Nevertheless, 
he was a bold fellow who would venture alone into the 
dim and dismal region of that ravine and not feel the 
influence of the place upon his nerves. 

It was evident some daring mortal had ignored the 
peril, for a tiny spiral column of smoke could be seen 
ascending from the haunted depths of the ravine up- 
wards to where a kind of stairway was traced formed 
of creepers, the outstanding stems serving as steps. 

It was only by standing upon the very outer ledge 
above, and parting the foliage that screened it, that 
the smoke could be seen; and, if only superficially 
observed, it might easily have been mistaken for a 
strong waif of the fog that floated above the water- 
fall near which it rose. Closely scrutinized, however, 


FERNBROOK. 


15 


its bine color and soft filmy haze rendered it recogniz- 
able as the smoke of a wood fire, and one that must 
have been ignited by human hands. Under the 
branches of a large kauri tree standing by the edge of 
the lagoon, a canoe of rude construction was moored 
by a twisted piece of supple-jack attached to the tree. 
Nor was this the only indication of the presence of man. 
Close under the cliff, and near where the torrent came 
tumbling down from the rocks, stood a kauri pine of 
enormous dimensions. Its buttressed trunk covered 
a surface of more than forty feet in diameter, and the 
bole rose nearly to the brow of the cliff, with a thick 
foliage upon it which completely shut out the view 
overhead. Beneath it stood a whare , or Maori hut, 
constructed of flax thongs and rushes, with a door 
opening out to the path up the rock. Few and simple, 
indeed, were the articles of furniture in this primitive 
abode. A couch made from two poles, interlaced with 
flax and fern thereon, formed a bed, a sheet of bark 
placed upon four stakes for a table, and a kauri log for 
a seat. Save an old tin kettle and one or two utensils, 
there was nothing else in the establishment in the way 
of goods and chattels. Against the walls hung a vari- 
ety of singular objects. The skull and tusks of a boar, 
enormous bats with human-like faces, snakes, strings 
of teeth and beads,, and quaint images carved in wood. 

Squatting by the door of the whare was a Maori, 
smoking a short, black, clay pipe. He was of gigantic 
proportions, and frightfully tattooed over every part of 
bis face. Between his broad shoulders was set a bull- 
like head, almost neckless. This personage was evi- 
dently waiting and watching for the appearance of 
someone expected by way of the cliff, for at the slight- 
est sound he would crane himself and listen attentively. 


16 THE SHADOW OP HILTON FERNBROOK. 

At such times his back was bent like a bow, present- 
ing a great hunch, partly the effect of advanced age and 
partly from natural malformation. 

The Maori’s costume was in keeping with his abode. 
A short, thick tamba of mica, jack -boots (much worn), 
together with a blanket formed into a toga, completed 
his costume. At his hand stood a double-barrelled gun, 
with shot-bag, manufactured from the skin of some wild 
animal. 

Whoever the individual might be for whom the old 
Maori watched and waited, he did not appear to hurry, 
for the sun began to dip into the sea away beyond 
the Tonga Reef ere the expected personage made his 
appearance. 

In the fast deepening twilight the form of a man ap- 
peared at the apex of the cliff, who gave a peculiar cry, 
in imitation of the tolio ; the Maori below sprang to 
his feet immediately at the sound, and began climbing 
up the face of the jagged rock with astonishing rapidity. 
The lagoon reached, he unfastened the canoe from its 
moorings and paddled across to where the man stood 
for whom he had been waiting. There was just light 
sufficient to see that this latter individual was a little, 
hardy-looking man, young, and with a form as lithe and 
supple as an eel. Ilis face, though bearing no particu- 
lar indications of masculine beauty, denoted both dar- 
ing and cunning in a remarkable degree ; otherwise 
there was nothing to distinguish the man from any 
ordinary mortal except when he opened his mouth 
— then one felt a disagreeable sensation, sucli as may 
be felt at the growl of a panther or the croak of a 
raven. 

In a very short time the pair recrossed the lagoon 
and descended the cliff. Not a word passed between 


FERNBROOK. 


11 


them till they reached the hut ; there the Pakeha threw 
himself upon the rude couch, and emitted a long whistle 
of relief. 

“ So, this is the Great Barrier, is it ? ” he cried, with 
a mild irony in his unpleasant voice. “ I guess I’ve 
seen some few places on the globe besides New Zea- 
land, but hang me as high, Captain Bragge, if I ever 
saw anything to compare with this. There isn’t a level 
yard of terra firma on the entire rock. If one wants 
to go over the way to visit one’s neighbor, although 
there are no neighbors hereabouts that I can see, you 
can’t do it under five or six miles’ climbing. Give me 
a match, Bosco.” 

The huge Maori grinned, and at the same time 
handed his white companion a curiously-carved box 
containing vestas. 

“Now, old fellow, I’m going to rest here for half an 
hour,” continued the little man, lighting a cigar, and 
handing another to his companion. “ In the meantime, 
I want you to see that the gear is put into the boat all 
ready for a start.” 

“ What, to-night ? ” inquired the Maori. 

“ To-night, Bosco. The moon will be up in an hour. 
We will sail when there is light enough, if you please.’’ 

The herculean savage gave a grunt peculiar to the 
Maori race, lit his cigar, and left the hut. The other sat 
and smoked in silence for some time, until his thoughts 
found vent in audible mutterings. “ Egad, this is going 
the ticket and no mistake,” he cried, taking the cigar 
from his lips and apostrophizing the curling smoke 
above his head. “ Here am I, Timothy Sharpe alias the 
“Ferret,” and Valet de Sham to His Greatness Mr. 
Hilton Fernbrook, Lord of the Barrier Rock ; here am 
I, ambassador, courier, forerunner and what not, to 


18 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


herald the approach of my boss — master, I mean — to 
this his home, after an absence of five years spent in 
England and on the continent of Europe. 11a ! ha ! it’s 
rare fun to be a gentleman, and to do the grand tour, 
as the boss and I have done it for these years past. 
Ha! ha! ” 

And the idea so tickled the risible faculties of the 
little man that he rolled off the bunk in a fit of uncon- 
trollable merriment. “Well, well; I’ve done my mis- 
sion here satisfactorily, at any rate,” he observed, when 
he had somewhat recovered himself. “ One trump card 
played, which will go far to win the game if properly 
followed up. Now, let me glance once more over my in- 
structions to make sure I have missed nothing. Firstly, 
to give Bosco the Maori a half-dozen lines scribbled in 
such an outlandish fashion that old Nickhimself couldn’t 
have read it ; the Maori read it, though, and deuced 
glad and pleased he seemed after it ; placed himself at 
once entirely at my disposal, and he put the missive 
away in his dirty blanket as if it had been the Koh-i- 
noor. Secondly, received at the house when I got there, 
and devilish tired I felt too, scraping my shins against 
the sharp, steep rocks — received at the house with open 
arms, and especially by that tall, dark old she-cat, Rita, 
the housekeeper. What an eye she has, and what long 
claws for scratching! Humph! Ferret, you rascal, 
beware of that Maori devil in petticoats. How her 
withered face lighted up when I told her that Master 
Hilton was coming home ! Ah, well ! if the place does 
not suit you, Timothy Sharpe, you can give notice— ha ! 
ha ! Lastly, I am not to delay my return ; very well, 
Mr. Hilton Fernbrook. The wind is fair for our sixty- 
mile journey, and I’m glad it is so, for an open fishing- 
_ boat is not the safest and most comfortable conveyance 


FERNBROOK. 


19 


on the coast of New Zealand on a dark night, and with 
a chopping sea on. Entre nous , Ferret, if the wind' 
holds, the Master of Fernbrook shall see the face of his 
humble servant ere to-morrow’s dawn.” 

“ Who’s there ? ” The harsh voice croaked out the 
latter exclamation fiercely, and at the same instant 
a revolver was pulled forth from the breast of the but- 
toned-up coat. 

“ Bah ! It’s only Bosco returning,” he cried, after 
an intense pause. “This infernal den of peaks and 
chasms would unnerve the devil himself.” 

He had only time to replace the weapon in his coat 
when the Maori re-entered the whare. 

“ Well, is the boat ready?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Come then, lead the way, Bosco,” cried the other, 
rising, and lighting a fresh cigar. “ My master gave 
me positive orders to be back again at Pukehini by to- 
morrow morning.” 

The old Maori took his gun, and after securing the 
door of his whare, led the way down the ridge of the 
ravine in silence. It was a perilous path, even to those 
who were acquainted with its intricate windings ; but 
Bosco, fidto, old as he was, had been born and reared 
in its vicinity, guided his companion safely to the 
western ledge, overlooking the sea. 

In a small circular-shaped inlet, completely hid by 
the high overhanging cliffs above it, a goodly-sized 
yawl was seen rising and falling with the motion of 
the waves. 

The Ferret and his companion embarked. After 
they had cleared the cove a large lug-sail was hoisted, 
which, catching the breeze, sent the boat along at the 
rate of six or seven knots an hour. The Maori held 


20 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

the helm, and steered for a promontory opposite the 
Barrier, but far away in the distance, and on which a 
tiny speck of light shone over the dark waters. For 
over an hour there was a dead silence between these 
men ; then the Maori spoke. 

“ Is the Master not well, that he has sent you to re- 
port his arrival ? Why did he stay at Pukehini ? ” 

“Ah! that’s it, Bosco,” replied Sharpe, evasively. 
“ Masters do not always consult their servants as to 
what they intend to do. They order, and we obey. 
You will have an opportunity of asking the boss that 
same question two or three hours hence ; perhaps he 
may answer you in a more satisfactory manner than I 
can. One reason, no doubt, is that he has not been 
very well. The voyage was a rough one, and Master 
Hilton is a bad sailor.” 

The Maori gave an unmistakable grunt of dissent. 
“ The young eaglet always loved the sea,” he said, in 
his quiet tone. “ Many a time has he tempted me forth 
with bribes of tobacco when the winds roared, and the 
waters were white with foam. Hilton Fernbrook hath 
changed indeed if the rocking of a great ship taketh 
away his health and strength.” 

“ Bosco, you are a Maori, and therefore cannot un- 
derstand the changes which may come to one by 
travelling. The Master of Fernbrook has been absent 
five years.” 

“Tut! Twenty years cannot change men’s likes 
and dislikes,” replied Bosco. 

“ Argued like a Maori,” cried the Ferret, laughing 
his discordant laugh. “ The boss is not changed a bit, 
spite of all the queer things he has seen. He loves 
old Rita and Bosco, and bears in his regard all the old 
domestics who served his father before him,” 


FERNBROOK. 


21 


“ Ah ! Bosco loves the boy,” grunted the old fellow, 
in a mollified tone. “When he was no higher than 
this thwart, I marked him with the eagle of Te Papa. 
Let him travel where he may, he will remember 
Bosco.” 

“ Certainly ! Now I think of it, there is a tattoo- 
mark on my master’s left shoulder.” 

“ Nay, the eagle is upon his breast,” cried the Maori, 
quickly. 

“ Of course, old man. What am I thinking about ? 
responded the Ferret. “See yonder; what light is 
that?” he added suddenly, pointing to a red glare 
shining athwart the prow of the cutter. 

“That is the Point Light,” answered his companion. 
“From that peak inis twenty miles to Pukehini.” 

“ Good! Here, take a nip out of this flask. Master 
Hilton will reward you handsomely for this job, 
Bosco.” 


22 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER II. 

PAX I N BELLO. 

A golden morning, and such a one as one only sees 
about half a dozen times during a New Zealand au- 
tumn. The sun glinting in upon the large dining-hall 
at Fernbrook flashed back a thousandfold reflections 
from picture and mirror, and from the costly glassware 
and plate scattered profusely oyer the table. It is a 
noble hall, and of vast dimensions. Its fittings and 
furniture are mostly of Maori wood, dark in hue, but 
massive in their character, and polished like English 
oak. 

Looking round this apartment, the idea comes to you 
that the architect who built Fernbrook had erected 
a feudal castle, and supplied it with all the modern 
improvements and embellishments of the nineteenth 
century. 

A glorious morning, indeed, the warm sunlight illu- 
minating spacious courts and galleries with its mellow 
glow ; but on yonder balcony — where a regiment of 
the line might parade with ease — what a view ! Be- 
neath, sward and lake, and giant kauri forest, dim and 
dark, set in the midst of a sea of sapphires. East, 
west, and south, ocean and mountain, and overhead 
the deep blue arch of heaven. 

Within a grand chamber leading from this balcony, 
and known as the drawing-room at Fernbrook, several 
persons were assembled on this fine autumnal morn- 
ing. The room itself was a long, wide apartment, 


PAX IN BELLO. 


23 


Worthy of a palace, with bay windows deep and roomy 
as the embrasures of a fort, and curtained with maroon 
velvet. Rare pictures on the walls ; exquisite statu- 
ettes in bronze and Parian marble ; silken couches, ex- 
hibiting elegant taste in the blending of colors ; — in 
short, all that could charm the eye, educate the taste, 
or give comfort to aesthetic senses, found an appro- 
priate place here. 

Near to an open window, upon the sill of which 
rested a tiny silver cage, a lady was employed feeding 
a canary. She was a superbly beautiful woman, not 
more than twenty- three years of age ; tall and com- 
manding in her proportions, she appeared the breath- 
ing personification of that lovely dream sculptured by 
the famous Hiram Power. Her face was the splendid, 
passionate, glowing face of a Cleopatra, and there was 
that in the well-shaped brow, eyes, mouth, and lips, 
which betokened mind and culture of a very high order. 
Magnificent in person, lovely in face, Lady Blanche 
Trevor was also as fascinating in manner as one of the 
fabled sirens of old. 

Within the folding doorway close by stood this 
lady’s father, Major the Honorable Bob Trevor, M.P. 
The Major had been twenty years in the colony, was a 
member of the Ministry, owned many broad acres, and 
a fine country residence on the Waikato. Men said 
the Honorable Robert Trevor was haughty and dis- 
tant even to his most intimate friends, but it was con- 
ceded, at the same time, that the Major had a kind, 
sympathetic soul underlying his reserve of manner. 
Standing here in the full glow of the sunlight, the 
member for West Auckland presented the appearance 
of a tall, stately soldier, handsome yet, though sixty 
years had passed over him. 


24 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

On the opposite side of the room, and almost hidden 
by the thick drapery of the window, stood a young 
Maori girl, gazing out upon the landscape beyond. It 
would have been difficult perhaps even in Maoriland, 
where the female form retains in an eminent degree the 
faultless outline and exquisite roundness of the primeval 
race, to find a form so beautifully perfect. She was 
adorned in a costume which lent additional grace to her 
dark and resplendent beauty. Encircling her glossy 
raven hair a chaplet of white flowers shaded the oval 
features, delicate and pure as those of a Spanish gypsy. 
A loose robe, woven from the finest mica flax, girded 
at the waist with a girdle of curious shells, gave the 
girl a picturesque appearance when contrasted with the 
costly morning robe worn by Lady Blanche Trevor. 
It was not the costume, however, which engaged your 
attention. It was the face. Poet nor painter ever 
dreamed of anything so spirituelle , so gentle, meek, and 
tender. It was the face of a beautiful woman, uncon- 
scious of her beauty, and with eyes through which the 
soul seemed to be gazing for the first time in much 
amazement and surprise at this wondrous but wicked 
world. For the information of those who are about to 
visit Europe, let them go to the Moorish city of Tangiers : 
within the walls of the Delgardo they will see a picture 
of Isabel de Masquin, the famous beauty and the heroine 
of Telba. Here it seemed as if that old painting had 
walked out of its gilded frame, and stood transformed 
in the living, breathing image of Te Coro, the niece of 
Rita, the dark, stern housekeeper at Fernbrook. 

The Maori girl had never known any parent but her 
aunt. Te Papa, her father, a renowned chieftain, had 
lost his lands and his life in an uprising against the 
Pakeha. The orphan baby had been brought to the 


PAX IN BELLO. 


25 


Barrier Rock by a trusty messenger from the shattered 
tribe of the slain chief. She was only two years old 
then, but the close, reserved Rita loved the wee thing 
for the sake of the unfortunate brother. 

At sixteen, Te Coro was not only beautiful in person, 
but, thanks to her relative, cultured in mind. She 
early showed a passion for music, which was indulged 
to the utmost extent by her friend Blanche Trevor and 
her father among others. Strange to say, the beautiful 
Maori could not be induced to adopt the Pakeha fashion 
of dress, though she was English in everything else, 
save blood and name. Perhaps the aunt had influenced 
her niece to the contrary. Who shall say ? 

Dark, cool, and inscrutable, sat the tall figure of the 
Maori nurse by the huge fireplace ; three parts of a 
century had she seen, and although it had whitened her 
once thick black hair, and had left deep wrinkles all 
over her strong face, it had not dimmed the latent fire 
of the dark eyes, or retarded the freedom of her move- 
ments. Rita had nursed Mrs. Fernbrook when a baby, 
had held the Colonel’s wife in her arms when Hilton 
first saw the light of day, and when that dire catas- 
trophe came which deprived the youth of both his 
parents, Rita had vowed in her heart to watch over 
him till death. 

Over by the piano yonder lounges that same Hilton 
Fernbrook, toying with the long ears of my Lady Tre- 
vor’s King Charles. He was a trifle over twenty-one 
when he started on the grand tour, and he has been 
absent about five years — so the Major says, who has a 
good memory for dates. Looking attentively at the 
young man, you observe he is the image of that splen- 
did portrait in oils, hanging on the opposite wall, The 
painting was executed before Hilton Fernbrook left for 


26 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


his trip abroad, but there is no mistaking the likeness. 
Over the face of the prodigal the lines are beginning to 
show clearly, and the deep black moustache is much 
fuller than in the portrait ; nevertheless, it is the same 
face. No second glance is needed to determine that — 
a face once seen not to be easily forgotten. In all, a 
very handsome man ; dark, certainly, with his strain of 
Maori blood, yet with the form and thews of an athlete. 
In his very ease there is intellectual predominance, born 
of that self-same reliance which an unusual degree of 
physical power is apt to bestow. Something there had 
been — mental labor, perchance, in sickness — which had 
evidently left its mark upon him ; but it had in no way 
diminished his rare muscular force. A man pre- 
eminently to be selected from his fellows for feats of 
activity and strength. You could see the sense of a 
robust and strong individuality, strong alike in dis- 
ciplined reason and animal vigor, pervade his every 
movement. A man habituated to aid others, needing 
no aid for himself. It was not the strong supple form of 
this young man that engaged your attention so much as 
his face. The first thing noticeable in it, as a whole, was 
the unmistakable sign of a will inexorable. No one 
looking at his eyes could deny their power of attraction. 
Large, bright and, when roused into action, scintillating 
like those of some wild beast — it was their very fascina- 
tion which drew you as a loadstone to the man, spite 
of either antipathy or hate. A disciple of Puysegur or 
Mesmer would have acknowledged in the Master of 
Fernbrook a mighty clairvoyant, gifted abundantly 
with magnetic influence, and that subtle force which 
holds the will of others in complete subjugation. 
Watch him lounging in cosy indolence ; the brute he is 
toying with shows its dislike and its white teeth, but 


PAX IN BELLO. 


27 


it does not bite him, nor move from his reach. Why ? 
Because it cannot. See, when he raises his full arched 
eyes to that bright young face by the window. Te 
Coro is fully twenty paces from him, with her gaze 
fixed in quite the opposite direction ; but she turns 
suddenly, and meets the magnetizing glance only to 
dye the soft cheek with a maidenly blush. The myste- 
rious force is so strong in him that even the Colonel, 
schooled as he is in the art of sang-froid , feels its power, 
must fidget, turn and gaze at his young friend with a 
curious gleam in his look, puff more fiercely at his 
cheroot, and conduct himself in a way altogether foreign 
to the quiet gentlemanly fashion for which he is famed. 

There is one person present, however, who does not 
appear in any way disturbed by the magnetic power of 
Hilton Fernbrook. Let him turn his swift glances 
upon old Rita as he may, they have no effect upon her. 
The Maori dame sits quietly knitting. It is almost 
her sole occupation now. Betimes she raises her 
stately head to look his way, and as she does so the 
smile fades from her withered face, and the black eyes 
grow hard and cold. 

The breakfast bell peals out by and by, and the 
guests prepare to descend to the dining-hall. There 
had been that quiet pause amongst the company which 
usually precedes either of the chief meals of the day, 
and especially if the party happen to be hungry. 

Hilton Fernbrook rises and goes to the window 
where Te Coro stands, and offers the Maori his arm. 
With a shy upward look at his dark, smiling face, the 
girl accepts the proffered courtesy, and the pair go 
down the broad stairway together, the others follow- 
ing them. 

« Don’t you think there is a marked change in Mr. 


28 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


Fernbrook, Dad?” whispers the Lady Blanche to the 
Major, on whose arm she is leaning. 

The father pauses and looks steadily at his daughter. 
“ My dear Blanche, ‘ Mr.’ is a rather cold term to 
apply to one who was your schoolfellow, and is to be 
your husband,” he answers in the same tone. “ In 
what manner is our young friend changed ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you, sir ; but there is a difference in 
the Hilton Fernbrook who left New Zealand five years 
ago and the gentleman who has returned to us,” she 
replies gravely. “You ask, where is the change? — in 
what? That, I repeat, I cannot tell you; but it is 
there to me plain enough.” 

“ Tut, a woman’s whim,” says the Major, moving 
forward. “ Your ladyship was always crotchety, from 
a baby. I see no difference in the son of my old friend, 
save, perhaps, that he has grown more manly, and 
that five years’ travel and study have improved both 
the inner and the outer man in a surprising manner.” 

“Dear Dad, I do not mean to imply that our newly- 
returned host is other than Hilton Fernbrook,” she 
answers, with a smile. “ What I do mean is that the 
youth who left this Rock five years ago has changed 
his nature without having altered either in face or form. 
When I look at him, it seems to me as if other and 
sinister eyes gazed back at me through the face of my 
young friend and playmate. Do you understand ? ” 

“In good sooth, I do not,” responded the Honor- 
able Bob, somewhat testily. “ Early rising evidently 
does not agree with you, Blanche. Try a cutlet and 
a cup of cocoa. Fasting is hot good, it brings in its 
train all sorts and conditions of morbid fancies. 
Come to me after breakfast, and we can talk the 
matter over ” 


PAX IN BELLO. 


29 


A noble dining-hall, truly. At the head of the mas- 
sive table stood a high-backed chair, carved in Maori 
fashion. Above all other races on the globe, the New 
Zealanders are undoubtedly the most expert in this 
art. Te Waito, the sire of the famous Rewi, spent 
three hours a day on the average for a period of 
twenty years on a figure of wood, now in the hands of 
a certain Interpreter. Many years must have been 
spent on the grotesque lines and fine tracery exhibited 
on this chair, ere it came into the possession of Colonel 
Fernbrook. It was a gift from a friendly chieftain 
years ago, and had neither joint nor nail in its con- 
struction. 

For just one instant the son of Colonel Fernbrook 
paused before he took his seat therein — paused irreso- 
lutely, as if in doubt, or fear, or both. The hungry com- 
pany heeded no such trivial circumstance, but began 
a vigorous attack upon the good things before them. 

There were not wanting toasts and neat speeches in 
honor of the wanderer’s return, even at the early 
meal. If cordial greetings and flattering words of 
welcome went for anything then, the Master of Fern- 
brook had cause to be proud of such favorable tokens 
of good-will from his friends and neighbors. These, 
by the way, had received intimation of his coming a 
week previously, and were congregated at the Barrier 
to give him welcome. 

The recipient of all these courtesies took them very 
coolly. He performed the honors of the table with 
perfect ease and dignity. Travel had certainly changed 
the man in this respect, inasmuch as Hilton Fernbrook 
at nineteen was both awkward in manner and as shy 
in disposition as any unsophisticated village wench. 

There were many amongst the guests assembled to 


30 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

do honor to the owner of Fern brook Hall who had 
been on the most intimate terms with him, besides the 
Major and his charming daughter. Foremost was 
Ralph Warne, son of the head of the firm of Thomas 
Warne & Co., Bankers. The estate of the Warnes 
joined the Barrier Rock property, hence the two boys 
had been inseparable friends from childhood. A fine, 
strapping, active fellow, this young Warne, and of the 
true Saxon breed. He had been a term or two at 
Auckland, and returned quite a masher of the first 
water. To stare at you through an eyeglass, though it 
was doubtful if he could see at all by means of it — to 
drawl and lisp with exquisite slowness when speaking, 
and to decorate his handsome person, after the manner 
of my Lord Chesterfield on state days, appeared his 
sole aim and occupation. Ill-natured people said he 
was a foolish coxcomb, with more money than brains ; 
but ill-natured people do not always utter the truth. 
It was certainly true that the banker’s heir had no idea 
of the value of money. He would have been a plump 
pigeon for any worldly Captain Hawkesley to pluck ; 
but there were very few of that ilk in the vicinity of 
the Barrier. Nevertheless, a keen reader of men would 
have ruled that beneath the outer network of affecta- 
tion young Warne was not such a fool as he looked. 
The wealthy coxcomb had done some trifling good 
with his money at times, if the testimony of the gentle- 
man seated opposite to him is to be credited. Alton 
Lyndhurst is a poet and novelist. He has a faded look, 
as of having grown pale, for lack of daylight. He 
looks as if he had worked by night, and lived by night, 
and as if the sunshine and fresh air were a new sensa- 
tion to him. He has well-cut features ; but the out- 
line of his face is too sharp for beauty — no sculptor 


PAX IN BELLO. 


31 


would choose him for Apollo or Antinous. Large 
hazel eyes, bright and clear, full of vivacity and ex- 
pression, redeem the defects of his mobile countenance. 
On the whole, there is a charm in his face from the in- 
finite variety of light and shade to be observed there- 
on. He is a man about whom people rarely make up 
their minds all at once ; a man who improves upon closer 
acquaintance, says his friend Ralph Warrie. 

Time was when young Lyndhurst had to support a 
widowed mother by writing articles for newspapers 
and magazines. It proved a pitiful struggle, for the 
colony was not by any means a reading one. By the 
strictest economy, mother and son managed to exist, 
however, and the poor disciple of letters found time 
to bend his genius to more ambitious work. He be- 
came the author of a new novel. In this effort, in which 
every hour devoted to its construction had been a 
sacrifice, the author had striven to rise out of his old 
familiar self to something better. Alas, for the faith- 
ful work and the lofty aspirations ! The book was a 
failure, and the kindly publisher who sent it forth to 
the world was almost ruined by its publication. The 
Wellington “ Exterminator,” in a slashing article three 
columns long, fell upon the ill-fated work, hip and 
thigh. Other journals of less magnitude followed in 
the same strain, while one or two damned the volume 
with faint praise. 

By some means the disgraced book found its way 
into the hands of Ralph Warne, who read it with in- 
terest. Some of the scenes therein depicted were, as 
it were, a faithful record of his own gay life. From 
that moment the cloud was lifted from the life of the 
unfortunate Lyndhurst. Unknown to the writer, the 
banker’s son purchased a whole edition of the work 


32 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

for distribution amongst his friends. It finds favor 
now , because it has had the stamp of fashion set upon 
it. The newspapers may rail and condemn as they 
please. The fiat has gone forth. People who never 
read a romance in their lives read this one, and find 
much therein that is true — indeed, that some parts of 
it fit in with their own existence “ to a T.” 

The book brings the author money 'and — what is 
infinitely more dear to him —fame. The great and 
wealthy alike are proud to have him amongst them. 

“ Who is your friend ? ” asks Mrs. Morgan Hardrith, 
a widow of forty or thereabouts, who has just returned 
from a visit to her late husband’s relatives in Wales. 

The exquisite sprig brings his eyeglass to bear on 
the fair one, and replies, in his slow measured accents, 
“ Oh, ah, that gentleman is Lyndhurst.” 

“ What, Alton Lyndhurst, the author ? ” 

“Ya-as!” 

“ I have read his book. How good-natured he 
looks.” 

u Haw ! Did you expect to meet a laughing hyena 
beneath a frock-coat, Madam ? ” 

“ I don’t know what I expected. He writes like a 
man who despises the world he lives in, yet there is 
no mistaking the broad sympathy in every sentiment.” 

Young Warne stares at the widow, almost rudely. 
“ I know nothing of sentiment,” he drawls. “It is a 
trick of the trade, no doubt, with writers to preach 
sympathy. It does no harm, however, and pleases the 
ladies.” 

“Introduce me.” 

“ With ple-shaw.” 

The conversation becomes general. Heretofore the 
heir of Fernbrook had been the focus of the party. 


PAX IN BELLO. 


33 


With well-brecl hints and questions pounding in upon 
him, he has been compelled to give a brief resume of 
his five years’ wanderings, and he has done his task 
to their apparent satisfaction. There are people here 
as his guests who are delightful social butterflies : 
women whose fetish is fashion, and whose religion is 
dress ; women with whom to waste a summer after- 
noon at kettledrum, with whom to dawdle away long 
evenings in a country house, discussing fashionable 
scandal, or the last new thing in robes. Men there 
are, too, wdio neither toil nor moil ; men whose clever, 
well-chosen words are full of scathing irony for the 
human asses who delve and sweat, and rise at cock- 
crow. 

They talk about literature, Mrs. Morgan Hardrith 
expounding primitive opinions in that can’t-be-denied 
voice of hers. Major Trevor, less vehement, but more 
trenchant, joins issue, and there is a brilliant fence of 
words between them, until the sharper edge of the 
woman’s’ wit places the gallant son of Mars hors de 
combat. Rhoda Hardrith, heiress and belle of the 
season, takes up the running in lieu of her mamma. 
The favorite poet of the young beauty is Byron. She 
has no sympathy with Tennyson, because she does not 
understand him. “ The Idylls of the King ” and “ Love 
and Duty ” are so much Greek to her. She adores 
Fielding and Smollett. If the latter is sometimes 
naughty, he has also the power of making amends to 
his readers by being awfully nice. Alton Lyndliurst 
sits mute, while his friend Warne fixes his eyeglass, 
and smiles sweetly at the talkers. So the meal pro- 
gresses to its end. 

3 


34 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERN BROOK. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MESMERIST. 

The rigorous winter season has fairly set in. There 
has been a plethora of garden parties, balls, hunts, 
and what not for the frivolous and fashionable during 
the delightful autumnal weather. Hitherto Fernbrook 
has never seen such a gathering of beauty, of vanity 
and ugliness, of well-bred men and vulgar women, 
within its walls. In less than three short months the 
Rock has become more famous than was Almack’s in 
the Jersey and Londonderry days. With a lavish 
prodigality, Hilton Fernbrook has made his house al- 
together one of the pleasantest in New Zealand. The 
demigods of society crowd his rooms, and make excur- 
sions round his bold rugged domain, drink his wine, 
and fill the place with mirth and revelry. 

Parliament has assembled, and the Honorable Bob 
Trevor has departed for town, taking the Lady Blanche 
along with him, at her earnest desire. The Major and 
his daughter are not missed, however, from the throng 
of guests at the Barrier Station. Most of them find it 
quite a romance in real life to spend the winter here, 
in this old mansion where betimes the wind roars so 
loudly, and where the angry waves, foam-crested, break 
themselves against its solid base. Some of them, 
Ralph Warne among the number, have determined 
that the long dreary evenings shall be filled up with 
amusements. If they cannot hunt the wild boar and 


THE MESMERIST. 


35 


the tolio, they have determined to turn half the house 
into a temporary- theatre. For this purpose, agents 
have been despatched to Auckland, who have returned 
with the necessary workmen, together with a small 
cargo of material for dress and scenery. 

Meanwhile there is trouble looming in the distance 
for the whole country. Te Papa of Taranaki, and 
his ten thousand tribesmen, have broken into open 
revolt. Five years previously this chieftain sold his 
people’s land to the Government for ten thousand 
pounds. Some one told the chief that he had given 
away the land for less than one-tenth of its value, 
whereupon Te Papa demanded his acres back, or his 
warriors should drive every Pakeha into the sea. 

News of these tidings came but faintly to the ears 
of the rank and fashion congregated at the Rock. 
What had such idle butterflies to do with Te Papa, 
or his hordes of savages? Parliament had met ex- 
pressly to deal with the arch rebel and his followers. 
It was no business of theirs, yet while the house de- 
bated, while its members soundly abused each other, 
instead of taking united action to quell the rising in 
the bud, five powerful chieftains of the Waikato es- 
poused Te Papa’s cause, and the rebel movement 
became general throughout the length and breadth of 
the Northern Island. 

Amid all the gayety, and the noise and bustle of the 
active spirits about him, Hilton Fernbrook went the 
even tenor of his way. Sometimes, when the vague 
rumors anent the Maori rising reached him, his eye 
would light up with a fierce, sinister gleam of satisfac- 
tion, as if the thought of the coming deadly strife was 
a source of congratulation. One wet evening, when 
the guests were assembled in the spacious drawing- 


86 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

room, rehearsing their intended performance, the host 
stole quietly away to another part of the mansion. It 
was a small room at the extreme end of the northern 
wing overlooking the sea-wall. A very neat snug 
room, luxuriously furnished, and quite retired from 
the suite of stairways and corridors which led to it. 
In one corner stood a magnificent piano forwarded 
from London by Hilton, during the first year of his 
sojourn in England; before the instrument sat Te 
Coro, fingering the keys in a reverie. Fernbrook 
heard the loose irregular strain and paused upon the 
threshold. Had any one been present, he would have 
noticed how quickly the player turned about with her 
gaze upon the door. She felt the presence of the man 
rather than heard his approach. 

“ Pardon me, uni Titi ,” he said in a soft tone, and 
using the endearing Maori term. “ I am almost bored 
to death with all the incessant noise and excitement ; 
I have come here for a few minutes’ peace. Will you 
allow me to sit here and hear you play ? ” 

A deep blush mantled the smooth, olive face of Te 
Coro as Hilton strode into the room and took a seat 
beside her ; but the next moment it faded, leaving her 
ashy pale. 

He saw the troubled look in her face, and felt her 
shapely hand tremble as he took it between his own. 
“Titi, have I offended you ? ” he asked, in the same 
low, soft accents. “ Here have I returned some three 
months or more, and yet I have had no word of 
welcome from your lips.” 

“You have had many welcomes, sir,” replied the 
Maori, in a quiet tone ; “ surely you cannot miss mine. 
Remember, I am but the daughter of a savage. I am 
Te Coro, your ward, the object of your generous 


THE MESMERIST. 


37 


bounty. I feel I am the daughter of old Te Papa, and 
therefore cannot offer you the services of my tongue. 
Words are only air. What then? If I have not bid 
you welcome home again with my lips, I have done so 
a thousand times in my heart.” 

“ Yet you have avoided me, Te Coro.” 

“ I am a Maori. My likes and dislikes are not 
always in my acts, nor that which I think to be seen 
in my words.” 

He looked at her with a calm, steady gaze for the 
space of a minute, then said gayly, “ We shall be friends, 
you and I, Te Coro. When you were a wee lady, no 
higher than my vest, I used to call you sweetheart : 
let the bond remain between us yet. The years that 
have gone are but so many seconds spent in a troubled, 
dreamful sleep. Come, let me hear you play, uni 
Titi .” 

He leads her to the piano, but she trembles so she 
cannot command the instrument. “ Why is all this 
nervous emotion?” she asks herself. “Am I not the 
daughter of the brave Te Papa ? Why should I 
tremble in the presence of my benefactor and friend ?” 
She cannot answer the question, put it as she may. 
There is a subtle influence at work, outside her func- 
tions, over which she has no control. She feels it, as 
if it were a palpable force of material form and circum- 
stance. 

Hilton Fernbrook is swift to note the change in his 
^companion, and a strange smile illumines his dark 
face. 

“You shut yourself up in these old rooms too much,” 
ihe said presently. “ I must speak to Rita about it. 
How you shall hear me play.” He sat down and began 
a soft prelude from one of the old German masters; 


88 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

anon, this gave place to Agia’s difficult yet soul-stir- 
ring “ Del Nomino.” 

The Maori forgets for the moment all emotion in her 
astonishment. The girl is a thorough musician ; but 
this man touches the instrument as she had never 
heard it touched before. The full notes roll forth with 
a sweetness and withal a power which move her 
almost to tears. lie glides from Agia to Mozart with 
a rapid run, which tests the grand piano to its full 
compass. The “ Agnus Dei ” is played as if upon an 
organ, and fills the room with melody — melody which 
o’erflows, spite of the rattling rain, into the corridor, 
where old Rita hears and pauses to listen on her way 
to her room. 

O, Music! what tongue can equal thine? What 
creature crawling beneath the stars with the stamp 
and the likeness of the Godhead upon him, will not 
find in thee a refuge from the hard, iron-bound work- 
aday life, where men stand by and hear each other 
groan ! Genius and Art are twin-born with thee. O, 
Music ! Faith, Hope, and Charity are linked together 
in thy golden girdle. What a grand language dost 
thou speak ! All nations and tongues comprehend thy 
voice. The cares and the frets which cling to the 
practical, pause at the threshold of thy mysterious 
domain. We need but run the fingers o’er the keys, 
and lo ! the worries of the dull globe vanish into thin 
air. 

Te Coro sits silent ’neath the witchery of the 
charmer. Those great dark eyes of hers flash swift- 
ly o’er the moving fingers, which run rapidly into 
Beethoven, Pastoralle, and after that to a sweet pen- 
sive air from ‘ Lucia.’ The New Zealand maiden can- 
not have too much of that magnificent music. She is 


THE MESMERIST. 


39 


more composed when he pauses, and turns towards 
her those magnetic eyes, which sparkle with a lurking 
satisfaction. They sit face to face, he talking, but 
with his look straight and full into her eyes, and very 
watchful of every slight, varying expression therein. 
There is a method in his watchfulness which does not 
betray itself to his companion. She feels the attrac- 
tion in his gaze, but cannot resist it. After all, it is a 
pleasing, lulling sensation, this which comes over her ; 
a strange new pleasure, never felt by her before, where- 
in all the senses appear soothed into peace and quiet. 
Hilton -Fernbrook sees the change, smiles, and turns 
again to the piano. The first note makes her start as 
if from sleep. And yet she has not closed so much as 
an eyelid, nay, had never for an instant lost the con- 
sciousness of his presence there before her, It was 
only when he turned from her that an inward feeling 
of some undefinable danger came to her — a danger 
hid in some subtle way, amid all the glorious sounds, 
the soft words, and the bold, unwinking orbs that 
looked and allured while they looked upon her. She 
rose to leave the room, but he laid his hand upon hers 
and quietly detained her. 

“ Not yet, Coro,” he said smilingly. “ I am nervous 
to-night, and almost afraid to be alone. Listen while 
I sing to you.” 

Te Coro had no will but to obey. He plays a low 
prelude, beautiful in its harmonious blending of 
sounds, and then in a deep, full voice begins to sing— - 

Side by side we whisper, “ Who loves, loves forever,” 

As wave upon wave to the sea runs the river, 

And the oar on the smoothness drops noiseless and steady, 
Till we start with a sigh : 

Was it she ? — was it I ? — 


40 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


Who first turned to look on the way we had made,. 

Who first saw the soft tints of the garden land fade, 

W T ho first sighed, “ See, the rose hue is fading already ” ? 

This song has the effect of banishing from her mind, 
all the latent fears felt previously. How the deep 
rich voice soothed her! The song ended, he turns 
again towards her with a wild gleam in his look — a 
look loaded with the power of a strong will. The 
Maori feels its influence and tries to break it. With 
a gasp as if for breath, she makes a vigorous effort to 
rise and flee from the chamber. Vain exertion for her, 
indeed ! The strong eyes before her hold her spell- 
bound. It is only for a moment or so that this agoniz- 
ing duel of the will lasts. Hilton Fern brook raises 
his right hand, and, as it were, Te Coro with it, while 
one can count twenty, and the battle is over. Te 
Coro’s eyes slowly close; the small shapely head, with 
its coronet of glossy raven hair, falls backward on the 
cushioned chair. The dove is at the mercy of the 
hawk. He sits coolly watching her, with his arms 
still moving to and fro before her face in slow but reg- 
ular passes. Whatever his design, he appears in no 
hurry about it. When he has satisfied himself that, 
the Maori is thoroughly under his control, he rises and 
stretches his limbs, like some tired wrestler who has 
undergone severe exertion. Standing silently now 
and listening to the steady rain patter outside, he 
begins to mutter to himself, as if that inner man; 
of his were a companion and a confidant. 

“ Oh ! who shall gauge the limit of knowledge ? ” 
he cried. “ Who shall say that knowledge is not 
power ? Let me think. Old De Roal taught me to 
test myself after this fashion. He told me that Mesmer 
discovered a terrible force in Nature, but durst not use 


THE MESMERIST. 


41 


it for fear of the dungeon and the rack. My old tutor 
knew as much as Mesmer, yet was fearless. No dread 
of stake or gibbet could deter him. I am his pupil. 
I — who have pitted myself against odds all my life. 
In every vein and fibre of my being I feel the strong 
current of this all-powerful electricity of vigorous life. 
Before I was a man, De Roal revealed to me my 
strength. Well, I will husband it, and use it as I 
please. Soft ; wake not yet, sweet Maori maid,” he 
murmured hurriedly. “I am thy victor, but will not 
use a conqueror’s licence to thy shame. To me thou 
shalt be an oracle — the high-priestess of my mesmer- 
ism. How beautiful she is! Were it not that I am 
a — what matters it what I am ? Love is blind. If it 
be, so be it. Hist ! ” he paused abruptly in his so- 
liloquy, and stole noiselessly, to the door and opened it 
suddenly but there was no one there. “ What a fool 
I am ! ” he murmured, closing the door suddenly. 
“Now let me to the trial.” 

“ Speak, Te Coro, if thou canst.” 

“ I am at your pleasure,” came in faint tones from 
the voice of the sleeper. 

“ Can trance produce visions ? ” he asked with a flush 
on his dark face. 

“Even so. What wouldst thou?” she replied in 
clearer accents. 

The mesmerist stood over her in silence for a mo- 
ment, as if in thought, then answered : “ I would fain 
know what is before your survey, Te Coro?” The 
pallid lips of the Maori writhed for utterance, but no 
sound came therefrom. 

“ What see you ? ” he cried. “ Speak ! ” 

“ I see a long, lonely, winding road on the border of 
the sea coast,” she answered quietly. “ The road leads 


42 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


into a gloomy valley, where men are at work, hewing 
out large blocks of stone. Beyond the valley I be- 
hold a dark gloomy building ringed in by a high wall, 
and which looks like a huge prison. There are several 
parties of men, in strange costumes, moving here and 
there. Each party are chained together like oxen, 
and their dress is colored blue and gray, and marked 
with an arrow. One party of twelve drag a heavy 
cart loaded with stone round a bend of the lonely road- 
way. On either side of these are two other men, who 
are not chained, and wear dark uniforms and are armed. 
Suddenly the gang stop, and, with one accord, rush 
upon the armed guard, whom they overpower in an 
instant. The onslaught is so unexpected that no 
defence is offered, save and except that one of the guns 
goes off in the scuffle, thus giving a signal of alarm. 
In a moment the gang of chained men are free ; the 
iron shackles about their limbs are rent asunder. 
Seven of the twelve are recaptured and chained to- 
gether again ; the other five flee and disappear.” 

“ Can you describe any of those that have es- 
caped ? ” 

“Yes. The one who led them appeared like unto 
yourself, Hilton Fernbrook.” 

“ I ?” 

“You! ” she answered quickly. “ Did I not know 
that you were here, I would say : Thou art he ! ” 

“Well said, O prophetess! Has this felon my 
hair, my gait, my moustache ? Come, no quibbling, 
Titi?” 

“ This man has no moustache, but the face, the form, 
the walk, are all the same. I know them from a mil- 
lion, degraded as are the surroundings.” 

“ Good, my young Toho,” he answered, with a 


THE MESMERIST. 


‘-xtj 


strange smile. “Let that vision pass. What seest 
thou now?” 

“ Now, I behold a picture like the sea,” she said, 
after a pause. “And lo ! there is a ship — a small ship 
with two masts, from which the idle sails hang loosely 
down. There is no wind, and the sea and sky are like 
molten fire seen through a mist. On the deck the 
crew are reeling here and there in drunkenness and 
uttering terrible blasphemy. The liquor and the blaz- 
ing sun have made them mad. Everywhere there ap- 
pears disorder and wild debauchery. Look! Even 
while they sing and dance in their wild orgie, a broad 
flame shoots forth from the ship’s hold. She is on fire. 
One of the crew, more insane than the rest, has set 
the vessel in flames. How it roars and whistles, and 
gleams in power ! One by one it licks up the reeling 
forms of the crew with its red-hot tongue, until there 
are but two left to battle with it. This pair fight the 
angry elements with cool courage and patience. But 
in vain. Nothing can save the doomed ship. Their 
only hope is in one small boat, which the flames have 
not yet reached, They lower this on the darkened 
ocean and push off from the burning mass.” 

“ You can see the faces of this pair ? ” 

“Clearly. One is a little man, thin-visaged, but 
bold-looking, and, though young, still resolute.” 

“ And the other ?” 

“The same man who led the five prison-breakers 
into the bush,” answered Te Coro. 

“Can you discern the name of the burning vessel?” 
asks the mesmerist, in a low tone. 

“Yes ; vividly. It is ‘Seagull.’” 

“ Enough ! ” he cries, with sudden animation. Then, 
seating himself at the piano, he plays a Grand March 


44 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


in fullest tone. By and by Te Coro moans, sighs, rubs 
her eyes, and gazes about her with a bewildered look. 
“ I fear I have been asleep,” she says in an apologetic 
manner, looking towards the player. 

“ Asleep, Te Coro ? Come, that is not very flattering 
to your humble servant,” he answered, without turn- 
ing. 

“ I confess it is not,” she adds, with a little laugh, 
at the same time rising to go. “Thank you very 
much for your music. It has made me quite drowsy.” 

Te Coro retires with a graceful bend of her head, 
and closes the door softly behind her. Out on the 
main corridor stands old Rita, the nurse. 

“ Come with me to my room, child ; I have some- 
thing to say to you,” she says, as she leads the girl 
away. 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


45 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

Before the rain had ceased to rattle against the 
solid gables of Fern brook Hall, all was in readiness 
for the performance of Massinger’s fine old comedy, 
‘A New Way to Pay old Debts.” Many objections 
had been set up and demolished before the dramatis 
personce were fitted to their several parts. Luckily for 
Ralph Warne, who had taken upon himself the re- 
sponsibility of the affair, Alton Lyndhurst proved him- 
self an able stage director and manager. But with all 
his tact, the young author found himself at fault. No 
one could be found to perform the leading role. In 
this dilemma, two strangers arrived at the Rock, and 
were introduced by the master of Fernbrook to his 
guests. 

“ These two gentlemen are my especial friends,” he 
said. “ On the continent of Europe and elsewhere we 
have sojourned together, sharing the same roof and 
the same table. In the name of friendship I bid them 
both welcome to New Zealand.” 

The new-comers were evidently men of the world, 
who knew how to adapt themselves to mixed company. 
In a few hours they were quite at home, accepted parts 
in the comedy, and entered into the spirit of the fun 
with the zest of school-boys let out for a holiday. 
Neither of these personages was young. The fore- 
most of the twain was verging on sixty years of age ; 


46 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


yet he was a man who had been well preserved— a man 
who appeared to have taken good care of Number One 
above all things else. His threescore years sat upon 
him as lightly as forty winters upon many men. Tall, 
hut withal slight and delicate-looking, there was not 
a crease or wrinkle in the man, from his nose to his 
toes. Beyond an undeniable military air, which clung 
to him like his tight-fitting frock-coat, Colonel de 
Roal seemed a well-bred polished gentleman, at peace 
with himself and with all the world. 

Drummond Blake, his companion, was altogether 
unlike the Colonel. A giant in stature, and with limbs 
like another Hercules, this man was both gruff and 
coarse in manner and in speech. Nevertheless, there 
was a good-humored, robust, healthy, devil-may-care 
hilarity about him which Avon him friends amongst the 
company. A keen observer of men would have noticed 
two things in the conduct and manner of Colonel de 
Roal and his gigantic friend : Firstly, the Colonel 
never lost sight, even for a moment, of the huge pro- 
portions of his comrade ; while Blake, on his part, in- 
variably took his cue from the other, sometimes by a 
word, but mostly by glances well understood. There 
were no keen observers at the Rock, however, except 
Hilton Fernbrook and old Rita, the Maori. Probably 
both were on the watch, but in different directions. 

“ What a grand old place this is, dear Fernbrook,” 
quoth the Colonel, adjusting h\& pince-nez over his cold 
steely blue eyes. “ There has been no vulgaiwchitect 
here ; this is no modern daub of ugly brick and stucco. 
Nature has aided the builder, or the wise fellow has 
taken advantage of Nature. Mafoi, what a splendid 
bronze ! Sallust of Pompeii, could he stalk forth from 
his lava tomb beside Vesuvius, would stare in wonder 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 47 

Jit the magnificent proportions of yonder trellised bal- 
cony ! ” 

Seldom had there been congregated together such 
a witty, laughter-loving group as that which assem- 
bled to witness “A New Way to Pay Old Debts.” In 
the lofty drawing-room there is accommodation for 
double the number of those who sit in easy indolence 
before the crimson curtain hiding the stage. The gen- 
tlemen who are to take part in the performance are 
scattered through the audience, laughing and talking. 
An early dinner has left them ample time for gossip 
ere the play begins. 

Amongst the loungers, Alton Lyndhurst, drawn 
forth from his shell of reserve, is holding forth on the 
merits of Kit Marlowe, Jonson, Webster, Marston and 
a host of others who have left their mark on the 
British Drama. His listeners are only a group of five, 
but they are appreciative. One of the number is a 
lady, a proud, wealthy beauty, with a face and form 
as matchless as that of Helen of Troy. How cold and 
motionless she sits ! — yet there is a world of meaning 
in the far-away look in her eyes. 

While the fiddles are being tuned, and the players 
are preparing for honest Philip Massinger’s master- 
piece, let me take up the wand of Hermes and put 
back Old Father Time by six years. 

The world was younger and brighter for Victorine 
Hargrave, then only a slip of a girl, just past her 
eighteenth birthday — a birthday at which there had 
been an innocent drinking of tea at Major Hargrave’s 
cottage, on the cliff overlooking the Waitamata. 

Major Hargrave is a widower, and as poor as Job. 
He is a man who has seen much life. He has fought 
for Don Carlos, and derives his military title from his 


4S THE SHADOW OF HILTON F'EftNBROOK. 


service in Spain. Paris, Madrid, and London have in 
turn been his home. He has spent some portion of his 
days in South America, and is not unremembered in 
Mexico. But at sixty-seven he has had enough of a 
nomad existence. It is pleasant to remember his wan- 
derings and relate his adventures while he reposes at 
ease by his hearth ; pleasanter still to have his clever, 
bright, graceful daughter to minister to his wants — a 
daughter who makes a sovereign go as far as two dis- 
pensed by a sullen housekeeper. His cottage at Par- 
nell is the pink of neatness, very small, but seeming so 
much the snugger for its smallness, daintily furnished 
with the relics of larger and more splendid abodes 
picked up as occasion served. 

Victorine is one of those active spirits who rise 
early. She devotes her mornings to household duties, 
and flits about, light of foot, with gloved hands and 
broad linen apron. The Major, although a soldier of 
fortune, has ever been an honest man. It is his boast 
that he has lived amidst spendthrifts and social Bo- 
hemians, and yet paid his way ; that no tailor re- 
members him with a pang ; that no time-yellowed page 
in a fashionable bookmaker’s ledger records his dis- 
honor. 

In his retirement he amuses himself with literature, 
and though this pastime widens his narrow income, he 
has more pride in his achievements than in the re- 
muneration. The daughter is not so well satisfied with 
her surroundings. She has lived in this seaboard of 
Auckland for more than ten years, hut she has still dim 
recollection of London and Paris, and other towns, 
which come and go in her memory like a dream of the 
“ Arabian Nights.” To be rich and powerful, that is 
the acme of her ambition. She often asks her father, 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


49 


^voncleringly, how he can exist in the dull Antipodes, 
after his experience of brighter worlds ? 

The girl knows that, with even fewer opportunities, 
she is more accomplished than most of her wealthy 
neighbors ; she sings better, plays more brilliantly, has 
a more general capacity for learning new things, a 
greater deftness of finger, superior taste in dress, and 
more skill in making much out of little. JHer father is 
foolishly fond, proudly indulgent, praises Victorine’s 
pretty looks, her sweet voice, her cleverness, graceful, 
winning ways, and general good management. She 
lives in an atmosphere of praise, rises every morning 
to be admired ; lies down at night pleased with her 
own beauty and sweetness. 

The Lyndliursts are the Major’s nearest and dearest 
friends. Mother and son are as fond of Victorine as 
if she were their own flesh and blood. Often, in the 
summer gloaming, girl and boy have climbed the cliff 
above the noble bay, and here have watched the ships 
glide to and fro like grim ghosts in the twilight. 

Major Hargrave is at his best as a dramatic critic. 
Shakespeare is a whole library to him. He has so im- 
bued his daughter with a love of the great dramatist, 
that the girl has a veritable passion for the art. She 
knows every word of Juliet, Queen Katharine, Rosa- 
lind, Lady Macbeth, Cordelia, and Beatrice. Under the 
Major’s tuition, Victorine has become a superb elocu- 
tionist. By the winter’s fire, while her father smoked 
his pipe, she has recited the whole Shakespearean round. 
He teaches her how the most famous actress of his day 
used to pause here, or linger fondly on a word there; 
or rise at such a point to indignant passion. He re- 
members the great Siddons; how her awful whisper 
went through the gloom of the theatre as if mocking 
4 


50 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


the evil spirits; and Victorine hangs on his words with 
delight, and asks him again and again to describe that 
wondrous art. 

Alton Lyndhurst is three years Victorine’s senior, 
and is fighting an uphill fight for a place in the world of 
letters. What little time he can spare from his work 
is devoted to Major Hargrave’s daughter, for the poor 
penniless scribe almost worships her. It is the one 
gleam of sunshine in his drudging life to read Shakes- 
peare with her, or to play Romeo to her Juliet. There 
is just enough in her unlikeness to all other women to 
catch the fancy of the dreaming enthusiast, who is as 
deeply smitten with the only true, absorbing, unchang- 
ing, eternal passion as a young man of twenty-two can 
be. So on that high cliff, perched on the sea-wall, Al- 
ton Lyndhurst tells Major Hargrave’s daughter his 
love. Alas for the unfortunate scribe ! 

With shapely hands resting on his shoulder, eyes 
looking into his, words coming swiftly, and with sobs 
borne along the eloquent voiee, she tells him that if she 
could love any one it would be Alton. If she could for- 
get her terrible struggles with grim want, and resign 
her hope of unbounded wealth and station, it would be 
for Alton. But it had been the dream of her life to 
become rich and powerful, to emerge out of the slough 
of despond and poverty into the clearer light that is 
born of affluence. 

Alton Lyndhurst goes back again to his work, shuts 
himself up with his books, and strives as only earnest 
men can strive, whenloves dies and ambition is born. 

Before the year is out Victorine Hargrave is mar- 
ried. Amid the fervor of Parliamentary debate, and 
the strong opinions quickening into life which had be- 
gun to agitate even these remote colonists, Alton Lynd- 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


51 


hurst found relief from his sorrow. If at first his faith 
and belief in the purity and goodness of woman had 
been overthrown like some, rickety temple of frailest 
masonry, he had emerged again from his wanderings, 
to the light of former guiding stars. Work had saved 
him — hard, stern, unflinching work. The very effort 
to forget his mad folly and presumption had brought 
forth a latent power till then slumbering, and the 
result was fame. 

Yictorine Hargrave obtained the gratification of her 
darling wish, inasmuch as she married one of the largest 
land-owners in the colony. In the absence of good 
looks, youth, and the necessary culture which lends 
ideal charms to love, her husband had abundance of 
money — money, that we poor dreaming rogues rail 
against so bitterly ; the fetish whom we all adore, rail 
as we may. Ah, me! If Mrs. Gayland was not 
thoroughly satisfied and happy in her married life, it 
was perchance because she was a woman, and not the 
fault of her lord and master, who gratified every whim, 
every desire of her heart, so far as ready cash could 
accomplish it. 

Mrs. Yictorine Gayland went to England, and was 
absent but two years, when she- returned to New Zea- 
land — a widow. Young, beautiful, accomplished and 
wealthy, Yictorine Gayland became the fashion and 
the rage amongst the upper ten, who neither toil nor 
spin. The wives of the squatters and bankers who 
had, heretofore, shrugged their fair shoulders at Major 
Hargrave’s penniless daughter, were delighted with the 
brilliant, captivating, rich young widow. Those who 
had passed her by coldly heretofore were glad to meet 
with a nod of recognition from the queen whose law 
was indisputable. 


52 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


She has thought of Alton Lyndhurst betimes in those 
two years of her married life. Comparisons have jiarred 
upon the sensitive chords of her nature, when she has 
pitted him in imagination against this money-getter 
who calls her wife. She has thought of him very often 
in her solitary widowhood, wondering why he does not 
come ; thinking him unkind and cruel for withholding 
his notice and his praise, now that all the world notices 
and praises her. 

She is amongst the first to read that book which lifts 
his name at one bound into notoriety. Oh, how every 
page preaches to her of the days that are gone, of those 
unforgotten days when he was hers, lying at her feet 
in the late autumn twilight, with the broad full moon 
shining upon the sea. lie has laid his own heart upon 
the dissecting table, and anatomized its every pulse. 
She knows now how utterly that heart was hers, how 
torn and wounded by her desertion. She comes face 
to face with him once more in those vivid pages, and 
the very breath of that love-day comes back to her. 
She reads, and the smouldering love flames up with a 
brighter, stronger fire, and she knows that she loves 
Alton Lyndhurst better far than of old, and must so 
love him to the end. 

One day at a garden party given by the popular 
member for West Auckland, Alton and Victorine meet 
again. The belle of fashion and the rising author are 
both changed ; both are accomplished in the polite art 
of self-repression. She greets him with graceful tran- 
quillity ; he reciprocates with gracious candor. They 
talk of the old cottage by the sea-wall, of the dear, dead 
father. From that time the idol of society and the pop- 
ular author are friends — but there is no word of love 
between them. Cast thy magic wand aside, O Hermes ! 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


5S 

Lift the curtain again on the group gathered round 
Alton Lyndhurst. The theme is still men and books.- 
Colonel de Roal is one of the latter party ; watch him 
as he sits with quiet mien listening to the talker. There 
is one huge sneer stamped from brow to chin, but it is 
so subtle and refined that it appears like a benign smile 
on his face. 

“ I often wonder,” remarks Fenton Grey, a noted 
musician, who has come down to spend the winter at 
the Rock, — “ I often wonder that, among so many books 
written for this age, there are so few that seem calcu- 
lated to make people better.” 

“My dear sir, from an aesthetic point of view, good- 
ness is the reverse of interesting,” rejoins the Colonel, 
blandly. 

“ Yet Goldsmith has ventured to depict characters 
that are almost faultless,” answers Alton. 

The Colonel shrugs his shoulders. “ True,” he says, 
“but Goldsmith was a humorist, and could afford to 
paint virtue. Humor, with his heroes, removes the 
insipidity of benevolence. Faust is not good, and Iago 
is simply execrable ; but where can you match them 
for interest?” 

Alton Lyndhurst looks with more attention at the 
speaker than he has done hitherto. “ Then you deny 
that there can be any interest in the kind of read- 
ing which may tend to raise the whole tone of one’s 
being?” he asks. “For my part, I love Tennyson; 
one cannot read him without feeling better and 
braver.” 

“Nay, virtue is so simple a matter that it affords 
few opportunities for art,” responds De Roal, in the 
same quiet tone. “ Vice and crime are many-sided, and 
offer infinite scope for the literary anatomist. One 


54 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. • 

Cleopatra, mighty and fallen, is worth all the cold per- 
fection of your modern heroine.” 

The stage bell rings as Alton is about to reply, and 
that puts an end to all further controversy. Those who 
take part in the performance haste away to dress, and 
the fiddles begin to tune for the overture. The most 
difficult part has fallen upon the mantle of the Colonel, 
but “ Sir Giles Overreach” fits him as if he had made 
it a life-long study. Lady Aldworth finds a worthy 
representative in Mrs. Victorine Gayland ; the wealthy 
widow is an artist of the first order, as well as a woman 
of fashion. 

Nine o’clock p. m. — Settle yourselves comfortably in 
your seats. “A New Way to Pay Old Debts,” a play 
by Philip Massinger. Such a piece is just the thing 
for a drawing-room like this one ; and the costumes, so 
far as the ladies are concerned, are simply perfect. 

Up with the curtain. A room in Lady Aid worth’s 
house. Boudoir, blue and gold brocade and satin-wood. 
The walls are painted white, carved garlands of flowers 
and fruit adorn the panelling. Old Venetian mirrors, 
reflecting dark blue delf and rare old porcelain. The 
Hall has been ransacked to furnish this scene. 

Ten o’clock. — The applause is loud and long. Hilton 
Fernbrook, who has been lounging about, moody and 
silent, goes behind the scenes. “ Ah, mon cher , how are 
you ? ” cries the Colonel. 

“Accept my congratulations,” replies the younger 
man, with just the faintest touch of sarcasm in his voice. 
“ You are winning golden opinions, De Roal.” 

The Colonel leads him aside. “ My son, if some 
great enthusiast could suddenly spring up in our midst 
and raise the roofs off these people’s brains, as Asmo- 
deus lifted the roofs off the buildings in the city of 


THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 


55 


Madrid, what strange things we should find this pleased 
and happy assembly pondering over ! ” 

Close by the wing opposite stand Mrs. Gayland 
and Alton Lyndhurst. “ This night will make you 
famous,” he whispers. 

She lift her eyes to his for a moment, then replies 
thoughtfully, “ If one did not seek to win fame, there 
would be no such thing as greatness.” 

“ The most lasting fame has been won by goodness 
rather than talent,” he answers coldly, moving away. 

The close of the entertainment is very brilliant, and 
merges at length into a ball, when polkas and country 
dances usher in the gray dawn of day. 


56 THE SHADOW OP HILTON FERNBROOK, 


CHAPTER Y. 

COLONEL DE ROAL. 

The ball which followed close on the heels of the 
dramatic entertainment was at its height. From the 
half circular gallery above the gay throng, it seemed 
that the play had just begun. Those who had taken 
part in the mimic scenes heretofore were merged into 
the picture, and added tone and color to it. An old 
clock of antique model, standing above the balustrade 
stairway, chimed an hour after midnight, as Colonel de 
Roal passed outward with measured tread to the suite 
of rooms beyond assigned to his use. He had not 
changed one jot of his costume as Sir Giles Overreach, 
except the heavy wig. He entered his room, took a 
wet sponge, and carefully removed all traces of the 
dark lines which had been streaked upon his face by 
the costumiers, who had given to it the hard, stern 
aspect of the greedy, money-grubbing hero of Massin- 
ger’s drama. This accomplished to his satisfaction, the 
Colonel stood before the huge mirror, and complacently 
stroked his large moustache for some considerable time. 
At the farther end of the apartment there was an old 
weather-beaten trunk, standing on a chair. Torn por- 
tions of many labels of divers colors still adhered to 
it, proving that it had been a great traveller in its day. 
Whatever might have been the subject of Colonel de 
Roal’s cogitations, they evidently had some connecting 
link with the valise, for, his thinking fit ended, he 


COLONEL DE ROAL. 


57 


produced a key, Unlocked the portmanteau, and took 
therefrom some documents, together with part of an 
old newspaper. These he thrust into his doublet. As 
he was about to close the trunk, a second thought 
seemed to occur to him, for he plunged his hand 
amongst .its miscellaneous contents, and drew forth 
a small revolver. 

“ Gaston de Roal, you have existed in this beautiful 
world till you are old and gray, but your trust in hu- 
man nature has not been improved by time, mon ami. 
“ Trust no one ” is a good maxim. The greatest mili- 
tary genius of any time trusted his friend Brutus, and 
Brutus stabbed Caesar. Humph ! Rest there, my friend, 
till wanted,” he continued, in a smothered tone. 
“ When one has to play with a skilled gamester, it is 
well to have more than one trump card in hand.” 

With the same measured, soldierly tread, which ap- 
peared part and parcel of the man, he went out along 
the corridor, smiling and bowing, with courtly grace, 
to many who had taken possession of the grand stair- 
case to kiss and flirt, and ascending a small flight of 
stairs branching therefrom, entered a chamber situated 
almost at the extreme end of the building. This apart- 
ment was a sort of retreat or smoking-room used 
by Hilton Fernbrook, and on that account was held 
strictly private from all intrusion by that gentleman’s 
guests. Nevertheless, the Colonel marched in without 
ceremony. Hilton Fernbrook was seated, conning a 
rough chart spread out on a table before him, while 
Timothy Sharpe, his man, introduced in the first chap- 
ter of this history as the Ferret, stood by ready 
equipped as for a long journey. 

The latter personage was evidently disturbed at the 
sight of the intruder, but Fernbrook rose quietly, and 


58 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


bade his visitor welcome. “ We will defer your de- 
parture, Sharpe, until the morning,” he said, folding 
up the map and placing it in an iron box, which he 
locked. “ Now go.” 

“ Pray don’t let me disturb you, my dear Hilton,” 
began the Colonel. 

“ Be seated, sir ; the business is of little importance,” 
rejoined Fernbrook, drawing an easy-chair towards the 
fire. “ Good-night, Sharpe. Close the door.” 

The Ferret bowed and retired, but not through the 
door which He Roal had entered. He drew aside a 
thick curtain which divided the room from a deep recess 
filled with useless guns, fishing-tackle, etc., and made 
his exit through a low doorway behind it. 

The Master of Fernbrook Hall and his visitor sat in 
silence for several minutes after the Ferret’s departure. 

“ My son, I feel inquisitive to-night,” said the Colo- 
nel, blandly. “ I’m afraid I have annoyed you by com- 
ing here unexpectedly.” 

“ Not at all. Colonel de Roal is quite at liberty to 
go where he pleases here at Fernbrook. But what are 
your desires ? ” 

“ What is behind that screen ? ” 

“ Nothing but old lumber, accumulated the Lord 
knows when or how.” 

“ And the doorway there in the recess ? ” 

“ Leads to a passage opening to the stables below ; 
that’s all.” 

“ Humph ! This is but a poor, unattractive apart- 
ment, mon clier , with so many at your command very 
much superior in the way of embellishments.” 

Hilton Fernbrook turned, and looked full in the face 
of his companion. “ This room suits me,” he responds 
slowly. “ Here I am secure from intrusion. Come, 


COLONEL DE ROAL. 


59 


sir,” he added more quickly. “ You have not sought 
me in my den at two o’clock in the morning to ask 
silly questions?” 

“No, my son; certainly not. By-the-by, are you 
certain that we are free from intrusion ? ” 

“ As free as if we were out yonder on the ocean.” 

“ Good,” cried De Roal, in his usual smooth voice. 
“ After all, I have not come to tell of ghosts and gob- 
lins nor of midnight murders. Neither have I any 
secrets of Church or State to unfold at this witching 
hour. My dear boy, my sole errand is to show you a 
paragraph in an old newspaper, which may possibly 
interest you.” 

“ Thank you. What newspaper ? ” 

“ The Sydney Morning Herald , bearing date March 
13, 18 ” replied the Colonel. 

“ Twelve months ago.” 

“ Exactly ! ” 

“ The news is certainly stale.” 

“ But perhaps none the less interesting for all that. 
Some kind of information, like old wine, is all the 
better for being old. Shall I read the paragraph ? ” 

“ Do so ! ” 

De Roal drew his chair nearer to the table, on which 
stood a small perfumed lamp. Placing his gold eye- 
glass with due care and nicety, he pulled forth the 
paper from his doublet and began to read. Hilton 
Fernbrook looked at his companion with a smile, but 
it was the cold, habitual smile of the man of the world. 
Above it the eyes gleamed with a sinister expression 
of disdain, and the brow frowned over the eyes like an 
overhanging thunder-cloud. “ ‘ It is now ascertained 
beyond a doubt that the burning wreck seen by the 
“ Durham Castle ” en route to New Zealand, was none 


60 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


other than the schooner “ Seagull,” which disappeared 
so mysteriously from this port some months ago. It 
will be remembered that the captain of the “ Seagull,” 
engaged a crew of six men for a voyage to Tonga, one 
of the Fiji Islands. On the way the crew mutinied, 
and put the skipper ashore on a small island within a 
day’s sail of Hauti, and there left him to his fate. By 
a pure accident, Captain Bowlas was discovered and 
taken onboard the ss. “ Stormbird,” a month afterwards, 
and brought on to Sydney, more dead than alive, after 
terrible sufferings.’ ” 

The reader paused, and, looking at his companion, 
said, “ My son, what do you think of it ? ” 

Ililton Fernbrook shrugged his broad shoulders. 
“ Think of what, Colonel ? What interest can I have 
in the doings of such wretches ? ” 

“ Merely for study, dear boy. I know you are fond 
of describing the motive-power which moves the 
criminal class. Hear this : ‘ It is known that one of 
the mutinous crew engaged by Captain Bowlas, of the 
“ Seagull,” was, beyond doubt, a noted criminal named 
Victor Mauprat, an escapee from Portland Prison, 
England. Rumor hath it that this convict is well 
educated and of good birth, his father being no less a 
personage than M. Auguste de Mauprat, Consul ht 
Port Royal, and his mother Berthe Pierpoint, a creole, 
of good family in Jamaica. He was sentenced to seven 
year’s penal servitude for killing a British officer in 
some gambling brawl, and has so far managed to elude 
recapture. It is also believed that another of the crew 
was formerly Mauprat’s valet — one who, under the 
name of the Ferret, was known to the continental 
police as the most brilliant card-sharper of the day. 

“ ‘ Description of the escapees Mauprat, age about 


COLONEL DE ROAL. 


61 


twenty-seven, tall and gentlemanly, military carriage, 
complexion very dark, but clear; head, long: hair, 
black and curly ; forehead, high ; black, piercing eyes ; 
well-shaped nose and mouth ; frame, strongly built ; 
hands and feet small. Mauprat has a peculiar jail- 
mark upon his shoulder, which should easily lead to 
the detection of this dangerous criminal.’ 

44 Does this picture remind you of anyone you are 
acquainted with, my dear Fernbrook?” asks the 
Frenchman, taking the glass from his eye. 

“ Why should it. Colonel de Roal ? ” 

44 Oblige me by looking in yonder mirror, while I 
re-read this description of the escaped convict, Victor 
Mauprat,” says the Colonel, blandly. 

44 Pshaw ! My dear sir,” cried the young man, with 
a sharp laugh , 44 your jesting is ill-timed. Amuse your- 
self at my expense, if it so pleases you ; but pray select 
a more fitting model for my likeness.” 

The Colonel fixed his glass, and looked at him with 
a cold stare of surprise, which had in it a subtle touch 
of satanic humor. 44 Don’t be offended, my boy. You 
are not in a jesting humor to-night,” he says, at the 
same time smoothing out the newspaper on the table. 
44 If the points in the photograph of our friend Mauprat 
do not interest you, I will pass on to those of his f.dus 
Achates , the Ferret : it reads : — 

44 4 Joseph Hawke, alias the Ferret, with many other 
aliases too numerous to mention ; height five feet five 
inches ; fresh complexion ; sandy hair ; small gray 
eyes ; prominent nose, inclining towards his left cheek ; 
long scar on upper lip ; frame, thin and wiry ; walks 
with a slight limp.’ 

44 Xow, my son, if I belonged to the detective force. 
I should certainly be of opinion that this description 


62 THE SHADOW OF IiTLTON FERNBROOK. 


of the Ferret is most singularly like the personage 
who just now left this room ; but knowing, as I do, 
my dear Fernbrook, that any connection whatever be.-: 
tween a felon and your respectable man-servant, no 
matter how startling the descriptive likeness may be, 
is an utter absurdity, I therefore crave your pardon.” 

Hilton Fernbrook laughs that strange laugh again 
as he rises to light a fresh cigar — he is fond of smok- 
ing ; it helps him to think — while the Colonel talks and 
reads, and goes on with his senseless farce of simili- 
tude. 

De Roal watches him, as he whiffs the fragrant weed 
into small clouds of blue vapor — watches him with a 
smile on that smooth, unfathomable face of his, where- 
on there is a look bordering on admiration. 

“ You have been very dull, mon cher, in spite of the 
riot going on about you,” quoth the Colonel, presently. 
“ I saw you were, and I prepared the mystery of Mau- 
prat and the Ferret to rouse you up a bit. My poor 
plot has failed. My labor has been in vain. You are 
not interested one jot ” 

“ Hay, you are wrong ; I am filled with gratitude at 
your kind endeavor to amuse me,” responded the other, 
quietly. “I confess the description of your convict — 
what’s his name? n'importe — bears a strong resem- 
blance to my poor self, only the picture drawn is some- 
what flattering. Were the rascals captured?” 

‘‘Captured! Ho. Men like this Victor Mauprat 
are not defeated on the lines laid down in the case of 
ordinary criminals.” 

“ Flattering again.” 

“Hay, my son. What chimerical attraction can 
there possibly be between a vile prison-breaker and 
the rich and well-born heir of Fernbrook? The mere 


COLONEL DE ROAL. 


63 


supposition has the stamp of insanity upon it. Fie ! 
Now, here is part of another copy of the same journal 
of later date, wherein we have the denouement of the 
drama. I picked this up on board the steamer ‘Med- 
way,’ on my voyage from Sydney to New Zealand, 
and preserved it, because it contained an account of a 
terrible catastrophe at sea — the burning of a ship, and 
the loss of all the crew.” 

“ I am dull at riddles, my dear De Roal.” 

“ This is not a riddle. Mauprat, the convict, and his 
companions perished by fire on board the ‘ Seagull ’ 
schooner, burnt at sea on December 10, eight months 
after their escape.” 

“ Then Victor Mauprat is dead ! ” exclaimed Hilton 
Fernbrook, rising from his seat and confronting the 
Colonel. 

“ Ay, dead ! ” echoed the other, rising also, and set- 
ting himself face to face with his companion. “Will 
you read how this clever scoundrel evaded his pursuers, 
how he reached New South Wales, obtained money, 
and by an able scheme chartered the ship which he 
destroyed at sea, so that every vestige of his crimes 
might forever remain locked in the dark womb of 
oblivion ? Will you read ? ” 

“ No,” cried the other, with solemn voice. “ Enough 
that retribution has failed. Out of the subtle working 
of my mind the dread shadow has departed. From 
henceforth, Victor Mauprat is dead. Dead ! De Roal. 
Do you hear? The affinity between us twain is rent 
asunder. And now, the dread and likeness — ay, the 
very double — of Hilton Fernbrook being fled, Will — 
mighty, potent, stern, unflinching Will — shall assert 
itself.” 

As he spoke there came into his handsome face a 


64 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

look which made it almost hideous. From red to white, 
and from white to dull ashy paleness, and to a ye't deeper 
tinge, rarely seen on the human countenance : the 
changes came and went in rapid succession over the 
Colonel’s vis-a-vis. No famishing jungle tiger ever 
had eyes more fierce and glaring than this man had. 
The deadly cobra, reared on end to strike its victim, 
was not more deadly in its attraction, was not more 
certain in its power of fascination. And there they 
stood, these two men, master and pupil, both strong in 
the gift of mesmeric power, and in the influence of will. 
¥he Colonel . noted the change in his companion and 
smiled. He felt the fearless eyes fix themselves, as 
it were, upon his own, in a wordless, bloodless duel of 
strength between them. Heretofore the pupil had been 
docile and obedient, now it was a test for the mastery. 
Face to face, within a step of each other they stand, 
their eyes fixed and steadfast, but sparkling and emit- 
ting rays like fire. For a time it seems as if the elder 
is going to vanquish. He is confident, smiling, while 
his opponent is frowning and savage. In less time than 
it takes to pen these lines, the smile has faded from the 
Colonel’s face. He begins to feel a stronger power 
than his own gathering, slowly but surely, round his 
inclinations, his resolves, like a band of steel. As a 
mesmerist he has been all-powerful, unconquerable. 
He feels lie is being subdued now, in spite of his knowl- 
edge— in spite of all he can do. With teeth shut hard, 
and breath quickened, like some spent swimmer — a 
thought comes to him ; he moves his hand in search of 
the revolver hid away in his doublet. 

Without the faintest shadow of turning from that 
terrible fixed look set straight into the expanded orbs 
of his adversary, Hilton Fernbrook notes the movement, 


COLONEL DE ROAL. 


65 


and guesses its purport. Ere the Colonel can raise his 
hand, the other, swift as thought, seizes it, and thrusts 
something into the palm. If a sudden sword-thrust 
had entered the veteran’s body, the shock could not 
have produced a more striking change in his whole 
manner. He reels backward, and the perspiration 
begins to gather on his face under the agony. Struggle 
as gamely as he may, lie cannot reach the pistol. There 
is murder in his desires and at his heart, but the will 
to act is gone from him. He feels it going, swallowed 
up by the terrible creature before him, whose dreadful 
eye holds his every faculty in bondage. A few mo- 
ments more, and the strong-willed mesmerist is beaten 
by his own weapons. With pallid face, closed eyes, 
and nerveless hands clenched, Colonel de Roal falls to 
the floor, a senseless, inert mass. 

Hilton Fernbrook draws a long breath, which is 
almost a groan in its intensity. For a moment he stands 
over his fallen antagonist, then raises him and places 
him in a chair, unlaces the doublet to give him air, and 
wipes the poor face with his handkerchief. 

“ The cub has grown stronger than the old lion,” he 
muttered, pouring out a large goblet of strong wine, 
which he emptied at a draught. “ This mystery of 
Victor Mauprat, the convict, was but a shallow pretext 
to work his will on me. Fool ! Am not I his pupil ? 
Yet he is my master no longer. Could he not have 
reasoned better than to deem, me so weak — I, whom 
he has schooled into a semblance of himself ? Humph ! 
What papers are these, Colonel, eh ! mon ami f Two 
letters, and a photograph. Why, how is this ? These 
epistles are written by one who signs himself Hilton 
Fernbrook. I never wrote these documents, and am 
not T Hilton Fernbrook? This portrait is the sem- 

5 


66 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


blance, verily a faithful semblance, of my own self, even 
in the most minute particular, but who sat for it ? Not 
I ; I do hereby solemnly swear.” 

“How now, old mate?” he cried, turning to the 
silent form before him. “ Whose letters and picture 
are these ? Speak, if thou canst.” 

There was a slight quivering of the Colonel’s body, 
but no other answer was given. 

“Pierre de Roal, I command thee; tell me whose 
portrait is this I hold in my hand ? ” cried the speaker 
again, at the same time making several rapid passes 
across the sleeper’s face. 

“ Look at the back of the photograph. It is written 
there,” muttered the other, in a low tone. 

Hilton Fernbrook held the card towards the light. 

“ ‘Victor Mauprat!’ ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes, ‘ Victor Mauprat ! ’ ” echoed the sleeper, faintly. 

“ He is dead, mon 2 iere ! ” 

“ Ay ! he is dead ! ” again murmured the pallid lips. 


In the gray dawn, the young Master of Fernbrook 
made his way through the gay dancers to a building 
adjoining the stables, where his man Sharpe was study- 
ing Grant’s “ Maori Made Easy.” 

“ Get up and saddle the Cardinal,” he said in a husky 
tone. “You must reach Pukehini to-morrow night. 
There you will find Hoti, Tewarti, and young Rewarti, 
the Maori chieftains. Give them these papers, and 
bring their answer as soon as possible. Quick, away 
with you ! ” 

“What if lam beset on the road ?” asked Sharpe, 
looking steadily at his master. 

“ Idiot ! You have a revolver. Now, begone.” 


TE PAPA'S RANGERS. 


6 ? 


CHAPTER VI. 

TE PAPA’S RANGERS. 

While the revellers at the Rock slept off the fa- 
tigues of the night, the Ferret, mounted on a strong 
half-bred hunter, and accompanied by McKombo, the 
Maori guide, sped away with all despatch to execute 
his master’s instructions. Pukehini was a Maori 
settlement, the stronghold of the Waikato tribes, of 
which the chieftains Hoti, Tewarti, and Rewarti were 
head and front. 

The position of the native hapu (village) lay alto- 
gether out of the track of the Pakeha and his civiliz- 
ing tendencies. It was the boast of these warriors that 
the edicts of the Colonial Legislature had no power 
over them, and indeed rarely had white man set his 
intrusive foot on this domain of the last but withal the 
best and the bravest of all the tribes of Maoriland. 

The progress of our two travellers was slow, inas- 
much as the country to be traversed was of the 
roughest to be found on the surface of the known globe. 
Gigantic ridges of bare rock, rent and torn in quaint 
shapes, resembling towers, peaks, and spires ; riven 
cliffs, giant trees, dells overgrown with finest drapery 
of ferns ; huge caverns, echoless and gloomy ; ravines, 
deep and dark ; hills, mountains, and dense pathless 
forests, where the tough tendrils of the supple-jack 
hung suspended from the tree-tops, like tangled ropes 
from the masts of a hundred wrecked fleets. 


€8 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FEENBROOK. 


Grim, bold land of the Maori ! Many a strange day- 
dream have I had among thy silent solitudes. As a 
wanderer in thy wilds, I first discovered that mighty 
world — the mind within me. And with what shapes, 
what pictures did the teeming brain fill all thy weird 
landscapes ! Romance had never stretched its airy 
wings over the fairy bowers, the giant castles, guarded 
with moat and keep and tower, in this Eden of the 
ideal. 

Ah, me ! I prophesy that the bright vision of ro- 
mance shall have its place here, O Maoriland ! Adown 
the darkling vista of the coming ages, I see the dim 
shapes of scribes — the willing slaves of art, who shall 
plant their standard in thy glens and on thy mountains. 
And the teeming millions yet to come on this vast 
continent at the Antipodes shall have rest from toil — 
rest for the weary brain and the aching heart — amongst 
the visions that ye shall inspire on the pages of song 
and story — visions that shall never fade until tire great 
trumpet sound. 

It was on the second morning of this journey that 
the Ferret and his companion encountered a party of 
Maoris, on the other side of the Hunna Ranges. This 
was a detachment, numbering thirty men of Te Papa’s 
Rangers, a kind of guerilla force composed mostly of 
the tribe of the dead chief whose name they bore, and 
who had organized them during his feuds with the 
Pakeha. They were banditti, the whole corps, and 
hated the Pakeha and all his belongings with a hatred 
that often found vent in many diabolical outrages 
amongst the unprotected settlers. In the war of 
1852 it was a well-known fact that these warriors gave 
no quarter to the white man, save and except those few 
who were known to be living amongst them. They 


69 


TE PAPA’S RANGERS. 

proved themselves to be the best fighting men on the 
Maori side in many a stubborn engagement ; hence the 
Maori Council allowed them to do pretty well as they 
pleased either in the hapu or in the field. 

The physical appearance of the men was certainly 
good ; they appeared straight, well limbed fellows, and 
were uniformed like a band of Spanish gypsies. Each 
warrior carried a double-barrelled fowling-piece slung 
across his shoulder, besides being armed with the 
formidable meri, or war club. 

The leader of these Maoris, a thick-set ugly-looking 
savage, halted his men, and interrogated McKombo, 
after which search was made upon the person of Mr. 
Timothy Sharpe, and a sealed paper produced, tied 
with a piece of raw flax. “Where are you going?” 
asked the Maori, addressing his countryman. 

“ To Pukehini.” 

“ For what purpose ? ” 

“ Our mission is to bear that letter to the chieftains 
lloti, Tewarti, and Rewarti.” 

“ Who has sent you ? ” 

“ Fernbrook, the Pakeha, our master ! ” 

The leader of Te Papa’s Rangers opened wide his 
eyes at the name, and gave -that suggestive grunt so 
peculiar to the Maori when in a state of doubt. After 
fondling the missive in his hand for a few moments 
he thrust it into the pocket of his tarnba, and said, 
“We are going to Pukehini. You shall journey with 
us. I have spoken.” 

After that brief sentence, McKombo knew it would 
be useless to appeal. In a moment they were sur- 
rounded by the Rangers, and the word was given, to 
march. 

Whatever may have been the feelings of the Ferret 


70 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

at the unexpected appearance of the Maoris, he suf- 
fered neither surprise nor fear to betray itself in his 
manner. His first thought had been resistance, but 
he saw that it would be hopeless against so many ; 
besides, it flashed across his mind that his master’s 
letter would be sacred with these men, let its contents 
be what they might. For the rest, he cared nothing. 
With passive obedience he joined his companion and 
made the most, of his smattering of Maori amongst 
the Rangers. 

About noon the party crossed the Tateroa Range, 
where a good view of the valley and the Waikato River 
was obtained. At first a dense fog hung over the broad 
expanse of waters, but this soon lifted and disclosed a 
large homestead some two miles distant, and situated 
on the bank of the river. 

The Maori had taken the precaution to disarm both 
McKombo and the Ferret, otherwise there was no re- 
straint placed upon them. The farm they were ap- 
proaching presented the appearance of a thriving little 
station of about one hundred and thirty acres in extent : 
a roomy house with garden and farm, nestled in a ring 
of tall kauri pines, with the river flowing between. 

The Maori led his men straight through the orchard 
into the barn, where two fine rosy children were at 
play. They no sooner saw the natives than they fled 
into the house and gave the alarm. The farmer, one 
Roger Gordon, a Scotchman, was at dinner with his 
wife, and was unaware of the arrival of his mortal 
enemies, until his children ran in to inform him. The 
poor fellow was almost paralyzed by the news, and 
was utterly incapable of meeting the emergency. Not 
so Mrs. Gordon ; the love of her little ones endowed 
her with a presence of mind and courage worthy a 


TE PAPA’S RANGERS. 


71 


Spartan. She well knew the merciless cruelty of her 
unwelcome visitors. To beg and plead with them 
would be useless. Plelp there was none. Her nearest 
neighbor was a dozen miles away. The province 
altogether was a very scattered one, being the most 
remote from the Northern Metropolis. 

Taking her husband by the arm, Mrs. Gordon led 
him round to the store-room ; here were stowed 
away amongst other goods several parcels of colored 
blankets, for on these outlying stations it was the 
usual custom to supply the hands employed at harvest 
time with such commodities. The farmer, assisted 
by his wife, trundled the goods into the barn. 

The Maori warriors were seated in a circle by this 
time, smoking and talking; they appeared quite to 
ignore the presence of Gordon and his helpmate. The 
latter without a word, however, ripped up the bale and 
placed a blanket at the feet of each of the Rangers. 
When she had completed the circle, there remained 
three blankets, these she laid before the chief of the 
party. Not by look or gesture did the savages betray 
any interest in the proceedings, yet they saw every- 
thing that was done, even to the most trifling par- 
ticular. 

Dame Gordon left the barn when she had finished 
distributing the blankets, but returned immediately 
with a plate on which was sprinkled some fine salt. 
She approached the chief and held the dish before him. 
The savage turned his bloodshot eyes for a moment 
towards the bent form of the woman, then to the offer- 
ing held out to him. By this time the children, six in 
number, were gathered round their mother with wonder- 
ing looks : the eyes of the Maori chief wandered from 
the salt to the little ones ; then he rose, seized the 


72 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

plate, and ate a portion of its contents ; each of his 
companions, save the Ferret and his guide, followed 
his example, and the Gordons knew that from hence- 
forth, war or no war, they and their belongings were 
sacred to the Rangers of Te Papa. 

Ere five minutes had elapsed the warriors gathered 
up their gifts and departed. They had evidently gone 
out of their way to destroy these poor settlers, but the 
tact of Dame Gordon had saved them. To the Maori 
salt is a pledge of friendship, which is never broken by 
them unless through revenge. If the Rangers had 
been checkmated in the desire to punish the Gordons, 
they evidently were not to be turned aside from their 
fell purpose of destruction and murder in another 
direction. Some distance down the river was a cattle 
ranclie known as the “Falls,” owned by a Captain 
Burton, a retired mariner. The house lay amid a 
small forest of gigantic pines ; it was a lone, wild 
place, and tenanted only by the Captain, who was a 
bachelor, and two men. 

The filibusters approached this domicile cautiously, 
and managed to get within range of it without being 
observed. It was a large two-storied house surrounded 
by a well-laid-out garden, and with all the et-cseteras 
of a flourishing cattle station. The Maori leader guided 
his men to the front door and attempted to gain an 
entrance ; but the door was locked, and resisted all 
their efforts to force it open. Baffled in their attempts 
to gain admittance through the door, and not wishing 
to disturb the inmates, one of the natives handed his 
gun to a companion, and scrambled up the wall by 
the aid of a tough creeper, so as to enter by one of the 
windows. The Maori, with some skill and in perfect 
silence, reached the upper story and laid his hand on 


TE PAPA’S RANGERS. 


73 


the ledge of the aperture, hut at the same moment 
there was a loud report, and the savage fell headlong 
to the ground, a corpse. 

Immediately the window was thrown open, and a 
fierce-looking, red-faced, elderly man was seen stand- 
ing revolver in hand. “ What do ye here, ye pack of 
thieves?” he cried out hoarsely. “Curse you! I’ll 
rake you stem and stern if you don’t sheer off — ye sons 
of guns ! ” 

The shot and the fall of the dead savage had been 
so unexpected that the murderous band fell back be- 
hind the trees. The chief, however, did not move. 

“ Open the door, Pakeha,” said he in his deep gut- 
tural tone. 

“ I’ll see you hanged first,” cried the old salt defi- 
antly. “ Why should I open my door to a plundering 
hound like you ? I know you for a gang of murdering 
wretches, in whom there is neither pity nor honor. 
Leave this place ! I saw your approach, and am pre- 
pared for you.” 

“Will you open the door?” repeated the chief, 
beckoning to his warriors to approach. 

“ Certainly not,” answered the voice of the old sailor. 
“ This house and this land are mine ; I have paid for 
every stone, every rood of it with honest coin.” 

“ Ugh ! Open, I say ; we are many,” cried the chief. 

“ I don’t care a brass button how many there are of 
you,” roared the Captain. “I’m in command here, 
and I’ll send some of you to blazes, as sure as my 
name’s Tom Burton, if you dare to try and come aboard 
here.” 

“The Pakeha shall have one minute to decide,” 
said the chief. “ If he does not open the door then 
we will break it down.” 


74 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“ Here is my answer,” cried the old man, bending 
forward and aiming at the chief. “ Take that, you 
ruffian.” 

The shot knocked the feather out of the leader’s 
headgear, and striking a Maori near him full on the 
breast, killed him on the spot. In an instant a dozen 
guns belched forth their deadly contents at the window, 
the glass and the framework of which was shattered 
into a thousand fragments. 

For the space of five minutes there was a tremendous 
battering at the door, which gave way at length, and 
the infuriated banditti entered en masse. There was a 
broad staircase leading from the hall to the upper 
story. At the head of the stair stood Captain Burton, 
revolver in hand, and w r ith a set, dogged bull-dog look 
upon his face, which convinced his enemies that the old 
Pakeha would fight it out to the death. The leader 
of the gang had one hand on the stair-rail, but drew 
back at the sight of the brave old Anglo-Saxon at bay. 

“ Will the Pakeha surrender quietly ? ” asked the 
chief once more. 

“ Surrender, be hanged!” cried old Burton, in a 
hoarse tone of contempt, and at the same time setting 
his back to the wall. “I know that surrender means 
with devils of your stamp. No; old Tom Burton ain’t 
a-going to the bottom like a swab and a lubber with- 
out a tussle for it. Keep back ! If there were a hun- 
dred more of ye I would fight it out. Curse you ! ” 

A tall savage, less patient than his companions, 
made a sudden spring up the stair, but a bullet from 
the Captain’s revolver hit him in the throat, and he 
rolled backward, dead. Two more made a rush in the 
same way and instantly met the fate of the first one. 
This was but the beginning of the end. Like a pack 


TE PAPA’S RANGERS. 


75 


of bloodhounds that had run their prey to earth, the 
Maoris were not to be balked of their victim. What 
could one man do against such odds ? With shouts and 
cries they reached the gallant old boy at length, and 
dragged him down the stairs. In his desperation he 
clung tenaciously to the rails, and, in spite of all the 
efforts of his foes, they could not unloose his hands, 
until one Maori, more cruel Jdian the rest, severed the 
fingers of the unyielding hero with his tomahawk. 

They bound up the maimed hand in derision, and led 
the captive into the dining-room. The long table there- 
in was reared on end by them, and to it they fastened 
the Captain with a stout cord. 

“Will the Pakeha surrender now ?” sneeringly in- 
quired the leader of the gang, with malicious triumph. 

“No! Te Papa was a murderer; his followers are 
murderers. Te Papa is dead. So shall perish all who 
love murder.” 

“ Tut ! The Pakeha rob the Maori of his land, there- 
fore they murder the Pakehas,” said the chief. 

“ Who can say that I have robbed or hurt one of 
your race ? ” echoed the old man. 

“ Humph ! The Pakehas are one race — see these 
dead warriors ! ” 

“Yes, I know,” responded the doomed man, with a 
grim smile ; “ life for life. Enough ! your trade is 
plunder and slaughter. Come, finish your diabolical 
purpose. I do not fear you.” 

The old man spoke no more. He was hoisted bodily 
upward, with the table, and placed against the wall. 
Then these ruthless savages began a terrible scene, 
which made even the Ferret shudder with horror. 


76 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE HEIGHTS OF TOMARTU. 

Two clays after the events recorded in the last 
chapter the marauders of Te Papa’s Rangers reached 
the valley of Pukehini. Here Paul Titori, the military 
genius of the Maoris, had assembled every warrior that 
could bear arms throughout the Waikato. Tewarti 
and Rewarti brought ten thousand men to his banner. 
The treaty of Waitanga had been broken. The war 
which now loomed over the land had its rise in the 
Waitora district. Titori sold the Government some 
two million acres, and, after the purchase, locked up 
the land against those sent out to occupy it. 

Remonstrance was of no avail. The hot blood of the 
Maoris could not withstand the temptation to fight and 
drive the Pakehas into the sea. Amongst the young 
warriors there was boasting enough, if that alone could 
have done it. Possibly their boasting was not al- 
together vain. It was well known to the Government 
that within twelve months the Waikato chieftains had 
expended thirty thousand pounds in guns, lead, and 
caps. Well armed, with an abundant commissariat of 
karatea, potatoes, and wild pigs, stored in various parts 
of the colony, they felt confident of victory. Moreover, 
the leader of the rebel host knew what a valuable 
auxiliary he had in his women. They were an “ Army 
Works Corps” in themselves. A Maori woman, in 
peace or war, can do as much work as a man. Her 


THE HEIGHTS OF TOMARTU. 


77 


anus are strong ; her will to do, right good. Strapping 
the flax-made basket of provender on her shoulders, 
this dusky Amazon will carry a fourth of the load of 
a mule through forests that no mule could live in, and, 
save in meeting the foe, she is fully as effective in the 
field as the warriors themselves. 

From the heights of Tomartu above the valley the 
sight was a very imposing one. On the south side of 
the vale the Maori warriors were mustered in 'three 
divisions, while above the dark solid mass rose the 
JTiho, or split rock. Legend hath it that Tonga of old 
split this vast dome with a blow of liis fist. On the 
crown of the mount were gathered five chieftains, 
the heads of the Waikato people. They were seated 
in a circle, in the centre of which stood Paul Titori, 
Hilton Fernbrook’s letter in his hand. He had just 
read its contents, and stood leaning carelessly against 
the pole from which the flag of the Maoris floated on the 
apex of the Kiho. A handsome, devil-may-care fellow, 
this Titori, if the index of his features and his manner 
went for anything. Unlike his companions, this Maori 
had not a tattoo mark upon him. A clear olive com- 
plexion, straight-cut nose and mouth, gave him all the 
appearance of a Moor of Spain. His dress was wholly 
European save for a bright scarlet handkerchief wound 
about his head. 

“ What answer shall we send to our friend at the 
Barrier Rock ? ” he asked at length, turning to the 
silent circle. 

“He is a Pakeha. Why should he wish to fight 
against his race?” replied Te Honti of Waitana. 

“ Nay, his mother was a Maori, and from boyhood 
he has been a friend to our people,” responded Titori. 
“ Here, in this letter, Fernbrook of the Rock swears 


78 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

to espouse our cause to the death. The question is — 
Shall he be admitted to our councils ? ” 

“ What guarantee have we that this man is not 
a traitor and a spy, who seeks our friendship only to 
betray us ? ” demanded young Rewarti. 

“ An excellent hostage, my eagle,” answered Paul 
Titori, looking again at the letter in his hand. “ He 
says the daughter of Te Papa shall be his bondswoman. 
I have spoken.” 

There was a loud murmur of approval when the name 
of Te Coro was announced. 

“ My voice is for the young Pakeha,” cried Te Rauga 
of Taranaki. 

“ And mine, and mine,” echoed the others. “ Let 
him come, and bring the hostage with him.” 

Paul Titori knelt down and wrote a few lines on the 
back of Hilton Fern brook’s letter, then he summoned 
McKombo and the Ferret. 

“ Prepare to return to the Barrier at once,” he said 
to the former in Maori. “Give this letter to your 
master. Twenty warriors shall accompany you to 
Wangatura. Go!” 

McKombo turned to depart, followed by the Ferret, 
but, at a sign from Titori, Joe Sharpe was led back to 
the valley by a small escort of Te Papa’s Rangers, to 
be kept in durance vile pending the arrival of his lord 
and master. 

And now from the high peak of the Kiho the blood- 
red flag was lowered and hoisted again, like the dipping 
of the ensign of a man-of-war in salutation. 

This was the signal for a commotion in the ranks 
of the multitude in the valley below. In the space of a 
few minutes the whole of the tribes formed themselves 
into two divisions, with a distance of about fifty yards 


THE HEIGHTS OF TOMARTU. 


n 


between them, the ranks being four deep. Many had 
divested themselves of tamba and toga and stood 
almost nude, their bodies daubed in a diabolical manner 
with red and white stripes. 

When the two columns had formed up opposite each 
other, Te Rauga of Taranaki descended from the hill, 
armed only with his meri, and placed himself between 
them. 

What was going to happen? They were going to 
dance the War Dance. 

This is a custom as old as the Maoris themselves, 
but only performed in time of war. 

Standing silently for a short time, the entire ranks 
squat down on the ground as if by mutual consent. 
Suddenly, at a given signal from the mount, the war- 
riors start to their feet, each balancing his weapon in 
his right hand. With the regularity of an army.corps, 
each Maori elevates his right leg and the right side of 
his body, then the left leg and left side ; and then, like 
a flash of lightning, the dark division leap three feet 
in the air, brandishing their guns and raising such a 
succession of horrid shrieks as never fell upon the 
ears of mortal European. From frantic yells the noises 
terminate with one long deep-drawn sigh, accompanied 
with gaping mouths, inflated nostrils, distorted faces, 
out-hanging tongues, and fixed, staring eyes. 

To me is not given the power to paint in words the 
picture of this dread ceremony ; no one can faithfully 
describe it ; yet the scene is vividly before my mind’s 
eye — the strange motley ranks, the contorted, hellish 
faces absolutely frightful beyond the line of ugliest 
humanity. 

Again and again these movements are repeated, and 
time is marked by striking the left palm on the thigh 


80 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOlt 


so as to produce one sound. Anon, working themselves 
up into a state of temporary insanity, the grim forces 
rush madly at each other in mimic strife. With the 
fury of wild beasts they yell, and grapple, and stab ; 
each selecting a foeman worthy of his steel. It is but 
a mock warfare after all. Underneath it, however, 
there is a subtle sign, well known to that small circle 
grouped on the Kiho. 

It means death and destruction to many a peaceful 
colonist, wrapped up within the fancied security of his 
smiling domain. 

It means fire, and sword, and murder to innocent 
men, women, and children. It means war ! — war to 
the death, without pity and without mercy. 

God help us all when such a fiend is let loose to mar 
His handiwork ! 


VELIS ET REMIS. 


81 


CHAPTER VIII. 

YELIS ET REMIS; 

Mount with me upon the rosy wings of poesy. Oh, 
my reader, if thou art of the money-getting tribe of this 
dull globe, and canst not rise up to the viewless way, 
take thou a deep draught of the blushful Hippocrene. 
It hath lain long in the cool earth. Drink thou! Fade; 
dissolve; forget the perplexities of the slow brain, and 
the weariness that retards one here, where youth grows 
pale, and leaden-eyed despair shakes the hoary head 
with palsy. Away ! away ! let us shake off the modern 
Moloch, with the double face of brass and steel. 
Tender is the night ; the Queen Moon, ringed in by 
hosts of starry fays, is shining forth from heaven to 
light ns. Mount and away ! 

Land of Te Papa ! good-night to thee ! Good-night 
to thy rocks and chasms, bold and rugged as the hearts 
of thy swarthy sons, who meditate murder and call it 
war. Good-night ! When the morning breaks, we will 
return again to thy shores. Away on the wings of poesy, 
from the new to the older world. Swift as thought can 
carry us, we pass across the face of the great deep. 
Behold seven-hilled Rome ; Genoa, the city of palaces, 
with its huge piles of masonry — the Great Britain of the 
Middle Ages. Out yonder looms Milan, within a setting 
of mountain peaks, blue and amethystine. Far below 
us shimmers the great cathedral, with its countless 
tapering spires, seeming only a fairy delusion of frost- 
6 


82 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

work under the moon. Raphael, Michael Angelo, 
Canova, ye live again in this your giant creation. 
Away over thy deep waters entrancing Como ! Dark- 
ness holds within her sable shroud its rich unparal- 
leled enchantments, that drift behind and are lost. 

Hi, presto ! What is this ? — with its towers and 
domes and steeples drowsing in the pale light. 

It is Venice! Once, the haughty republic — the 
autocrat of commerce — the old Venice of song and 
story. Here, at the head of the Giant Stairway where 
Marino Faliero was beheaded, and where the Doges 
of old were crowned, we bid adieu to our winged 
charioteer. Au revoir ! 


Sweet solemn night, full of romance and of poetry, 
how beautiful art thou ! But more beautiful than pen 
can describe appeared the ancient city on the 20th 
day of June, 18 — . It was the evening oil which the 
greatest of its many festivals is celebrated with all that 
pomp and abandon peculiar to this dark-eyed race. 
It was the grand fete in honor of San Spiridion, and 
all Venice was abroad on the waters of the Grand 
Canal. 

Right from the water’s edge rose long lines of stately 
palaces of marble ; gondolas were gliding swiftly hither 
and thither, and disappearing suddenly through un- 
expected gates and alleys ; ponderous stone bridges 
threw their shadows athwart the glittering waves. 
Everywhere there was life and motion, with soft music 
over all, and yet everywhere there was a hush, a 
stealthy stillness, that was suggestive of secret enter- 
prises, of bravos and lovers— who, clad half in moon- 
beams, half in mysterious shadows, glided near princely 


, VELIS ET REMIS. 


83 


cavalier or soft-eyed patrician beauty. Venice by night ! 
It was dreamy beautiful picture. In the full glare of 
day, rags and poverty and misery were plentiful ; but 
under the chaste moon, her stained palaces are white 
again, their battered sculptures are hidden in shadows, 
and the old city appears crowned once more with the 
grandeur that was here when Shylock in gabardine, 
Othello, Desdemona, and Iago walked its streets. 

Beyond the “ Bridge of Sighs,” in a vast space over 
two miles wide, were several thousand gondolas, con- 
taining the wealth and beauty of Venice. From every 
boat there hung from six to a dozen, colored lanterns. 
As far as the eye could reach, these painted lights 
were merged together like a huge garden of many- 
colored flowers, save that the blossoms were never 
still. 

Mingling together, in a bewildering maze, they 
glided in and out ceaselessly, and defied your attempts 
to follow their pathless evolutions. Ever and anon 
there rose up a strong red, green, or blue glare from 
some huge firework, splendidly illuminating all the 
boats around it. There was music everywhere. Solos, 
choruses, string bands, and guitars wailed on until 
you became inspired with the spirit of the strange 
scene. 

There was one magnificent gondola, with cushions 
and canopy of Persian silk, whose massive golden tas- 
sels trailed in the water, drawn up close to the broad 
stairs leading to the piazza of St. Mark. Many a wist- 
ful look was cast towards this vessel by the passers- 
by. Its occupants were two young men, who by their 
language and their dress were evidently not Venetians. 
Every gondola that glided by them, with its crescent 
and pyramids of light, illuminated the faces of those 


84 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

seated therein, and glances of curiosity, and betimes 
of envy, were cast at the pair of strangers. 

“So this is Venice! — the wonder of the old world,” 
says one of the occupants of the gorgeous gondola, 
turning to his companion, and speaking excellent Eng- 
lish. “ Ma foi , my friend Alton Lyndhurst, if your 
pen can describe this sight, with its light and shade, 
then shall the pages of your latest effort be handed 
down to all posterity.” 

Alton Lyndhurst laughs, stretches his shapely legs 
to the fullest extent of the gilded barge, and with 
something between a groan and sigh replies : “ The 
picture is certainly wonderful that has the power 
to charm prosaic, matter-of-fact Ralph Warne into 
anything warmer than a mere practical grunt of 
approval.” 

“ Corpo di Baccho! as they say hereabouts. You 
are severe upon your unfortunate friend,” cried 
Warne,> fixing his eyeglass, and pelting a handful of 
confectionery at a passing gondola filled with ladies. 
“ They say poetry and all that sort of thing is as catch- 
ing as a malignant fever ; perhaps I have caught some- 
thing of your complaint.” 

“Egad! I hope not,” cried the journalist, with sud- 
den but mock solemnity. “It is sufficient that one of 
us should be afflicted. Besides, the Muses would have 
but a sorry time of it with such a lazy beggar as you 
are.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! But seriously, my dear boy, don’t 
you think it would be as well if you copied me a little 
more in that direction ? Work is all very well in its 
way, as my padre used to say when he made his clerks 
work fifteen hours out of the twenty-four, yet all work 
<u, d no play makes Jack a dull boy. Here have you 


YELIS ET REMIS. 


85 


been slaving at that new book of yours until you look 
about as brisk and as lively as an owl in the sun.” 

“ Pooh ! I was born to work,” answered Lyndhurst, 
with a smile. “ Toil to me is what indolence may be 
to you, mon cher. Remember, I am not a banker’s 
son.” 

“ Hang the banker’s son ! No, pardon me. I don’t 
mean that,” cried Warne, hastily correcting himself. 
“I hate personalities. You know, we left New Zea- 
land for a holiday tour of twelve months.” 

“ True.” 

“ Well, half the time has flown, and we’ve seen noth- 
ing — done nothing.” 

“ You mean you have done nothing and seen nothing, 
save perhaps the dark eyes of a certain demoiselle of 
this ruined Queen of the Adriatic,” said Lyndhurst, 
slyly. 

“ Fiddlestick ! ” cried the other, his fair face blushing 
crimson under his eyeglass. “ Will you be serious 
for a minute ? ” 

“ Certainly. Hadn’t we better push off into mid- 
stream before you unfold your love-lorn tale ? ” 

“I’ll push you neck and heels into the canal, if you 
don’t cease your nonsense,” said Warne, with a good- 
humored smile. 

“ Which means, I suppose, that you’ll do me the 
honor to marry me to the Adriatic, as did the Doges 
in the olden time. Pray don’t attempt the ceremony 
with me, or I shall feel it my bounden duty to dodge 
you, my friend.” 

" “ Be quiet, my dear Lyndhurst, and listen to me,” 
answered Warne, gravely. 

“ Oh, if you put on your serious cap, I’m all atten- 
tion,” returned the other, at the same time lighting a 


80 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

cigar. “Really and truly, sir, your love-lorn tale 
will come very opportune for the pages of my book.” 

“ Your book be ” 

“ Stop ! No bad French, if you please. There may be 
spies about. Better converse in our mother tongue.” 

“ I feel laden with Billingsgate.” 

“Don’t unship here, pray.” And Lyndhurst burst 
out into one of those hearty, rib-testing guffaws so 
peculiar to Englishmen all the world over ; which 
made the Venetians around shrug their shoulders up 
to the tips of their ears in amazement. 

“ I suppose the fit will pass if I am patient,” said 
Warne, resignedly. “Lend me your cigar-case. I 
find smoking good for many ills, even for the draw- 
back of unrequited friendship.” 

“ Stuff ! Don’t put yourself into a poetical — I mean 
a feverish mood. I’ll be as silent as the Sphinx, if you 
wish it, and as serious.” 

“Has it ever struck you why I persuaded you to 
join me in this trip, Lyndhurst?” inquired the other, 
after a pause. 

“ No. Except, perhaps, that I had an idea you were 
not the darling exquisite men seem to think you. It 
has struck me more than once that self has had very 
little to do with your holiday.” 

“ Subtle flatterer ! Do you mean to imply that we 
are doing a tour over Europe solely on your account ? ” 

“Not exactly. Ralph Warne wanted his friend to 
see some of the wonders of the world, and Mr. Warne 
wanted a wife.” 

“ Don’t be absurd,” rejoined the banker. “ Putting 
aside my desire for your companionship, I had a two- 
fold object in view when I started on this journey. My 
father, desirous to extend his business, gave me a com- 


Yelis et remis. 


87 


mission to negotiate with two houses — one in London, 
the other here in Venice. For that object he very 
liberally placed the swift steamer ‘Waiturea’ at my 
disposal, so that I might travel as I pleased, and at 
the same time -fulfil his instructions as speedily as pos- 
sible. Two months after leaving New Zealand found 
us in the World’s Metropolis. A few weeks more, and 
we had seen Paris, Milan, Naples, Rome, and Genoa.” 

“Yes, and here we are in the land of mask and 
stiletto. Egad ! One can easily imagine the terrible 
secret Council of Three, and the Inquisition, with 
its instruments of torture. I read of these things 
when I was a boy, and I also pictured the old city 
as something quite different from what I see it 
now.” 

“I think Venice is a lovely place, Lyndhurst.” 

“ Of course, Tophet would be Eden to you if it hap- 
pened to contain a certain enchanting lady.” 

“You mean the daughter of our friend, the banker 
of Venice, Prince Roumaine?” 

“ I do. A more beautiful lady is not to be found in 
Europe.” 

“Traitor!” responded Warne, in the same tone of 
banter. “ What would the peerless Victorine say if 
she heard you ? ” 

The smile left Alton Lyndliurst’s face in an instant. 
“Mrs. Gayland is no more to me than yonder crone 
begging for alms,” he said coldly. Then, changing his 
manner to earnest inquiry, added : “ A truce to this 
sorry duello of words, my dear Warne. You were 
about to say something with respect to a second pro- 
ject. What is it?” 

Ralph Warne looked keenly at his friend for a 
second or so before he replied. “ My object number 


88 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FEHNBRCIOK. 

two lies nearer home, Lyndhurst. You remember 
Fernbrook of the Rock ? ” 

“Very well, indeed. A strange fellow,” answered 
the other. 

44 Would it surprise you to hear that my business 
concerns our friend of the Barrier ? ” 

44 In what way ? Did he give you a commission ? ” 
44 No. A man so recently returned from a five 
years’ tour round the world would scarcely need a 
service in that direction,” replied Warne. 44 Did I ever 
tell you that this same Hilton Fernbrook and myself 
were schoolfellows ? ” 

44 1 do not remember your saying so.” 

44 We were, though. And I may say more than that 
— we were brothers in everything save name and 
blood. For thirty years the Warnes and Fernbrooks 
were most intimate friends. Twelve months before 
Hilton left New Zealand for his trip to Europe he was 
betrothed to my cousin, Lady Blanche Trevor. I need 
not tell you that it was purely a love match between 
them. For two years after Fernbrook’s departure we 
had letters from him pretty regularly. To my fair 
kinswoman he wrote in the most endearing terms. 
Every vessel brought news of him and his doings. To- 
day he was in London, visiting all that was to be seen ; 
anon, he was amongst the mountains of Switzerland ; 
and again, doing a pilgrimage up old Father Nile. 
Suddenly his letters ceased altogether, and for the space 
of a year we heard nothing of him. At the end of that 
time, my father, who was Fernbrook’s banker, received 
a letter from him to the effect that an accident of a 
serious nature had befallen his client whilst crossing 
a cataract on the Nile. Hilton Fernbrook and his 
guides had been captured by a party of Bedouins and 


VELIS ET REMIS. 


89 


were held captive, their ransom being set down at ten 
thousand pounds. A short postscript requested that 
the money should be forwarded, and that without delay, 
to a town called Berber.” 

“ A rather heavy ransom.” 

“Truly so; however, my poor Governor thought 
nothing of that. The money was despatched to a 
wealthy broker here in Venice, who had business with 
•a house connected with the Nile, and so forwarded to 
its destination. Of course we waited very patiently 
after this for some particulars of the mishap and its 
consequences, but we were disappointed. Beyond a 
short missive to my father, acknowledging receipt of 
the sum for ransom, not a line reached us from the 
wanderer. At regular intervals, however, he wrote to 
the bank, asking that money might be forwarded to 
various places which he named. The sums demanded 
were always considerable. My father, though hurt 
and offended at what he considered a want of courtesy 
on the part of his young friend, responded to every 
demand; but as time went on, and Fernbrook’s account 
began to dwindle down towards zero, the Governor re- 
monstrated : finding that had little or no effect upon 
the wanton extravagance of the spendthrift, he refused 
point-blank to advance another shilling. In the space 
of two years, the heir of Fernbrook had drawn no less 
a sum than twenty-five thousand pounds from the 
bank’s coffers. 

“The supplies cut off, our prodigal returns home 
again. He is changed certainly, but it is a change that 
is to be expected in one who has seen so much — and, I 
may add, spent so much money. Everything is ex- 
plained, however ; friends forgive, and are reconciled, 
with two exceptions. My Lady Blanche, who cried 


90 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOIt 

for a month at the departure of her sweetheart, hates 
him with an unaccountable loathing on his return.” 

“ That is woman-like all the world over,” quietly 
chimes in Lyndhurst, philosophically puffing out a 
thin blue puff of smoke from beneath his thick mous- 
tache. 

“ Pardon me, Lyndhurst, my cousin is not a bit like 
other women,” responds the other. “ There is some- 
thing beyond the mere outward form of this man that 
fills her with fear. It is the same form, the same 
face, the same everything about him, save that name- 
less something which has gone out of him — manly 
dignity, truth, virtue, call it by what name you will.” 

The novelist takes the cigar from between his teeth, 
and looks at his friend with some astonishment, not 
unmixed with admiration. 

“ And the Lady Blanche will have none of him ? ” he 
says very shortly. 

“I have heard her swear she will not fulfil her 
promise,” continued Warne, gravely. “My uncle Bob 
is a gentleman of the old school, and would sooner 
lose everything he had in this world than depart one 
jot from his word. To be brief, a circumstance hap- 
pened which gave to Blanche a way out of the dif- 
ficulty. One night, old Rita, the Maori— who, by the 
way, is as quiet as a cat, yet as cunning as a fox — en- 
tered by stealth one of the rooms occupied by Colonel 
de Roal, Fernbrook’s friend. From an old trunk which 
belonged to him, and which she managed to open, 
the Maori pilfered sundry papers, together with 
one or two letters, and three photographs. These 
she straightway took to Major Trevor, but the gallant 
Major being absent, they were placed in the hands of 
his daughter, and ” 


VELIS ET REMIS. 


91 


“ Why do you pause, old fellow ? ” 

“Dear Lyndhurst, it comes hard to think one’s 
dearest friend a villain, but, if these papers verify 
aught, they prove unmistakably that Hilton Fern- 
brook is no fit mate for my beautiful, high-spirited 
cousin. According to these records, the last three 
years of this man’s life stands out in all their wicked- 
ness — ay, wanton wickedness, for, in spite of his 
vast resources, he has been both dishonorable and 
criminal.” 

“ Criminal, Warne ? ” 

“ I repeat it. An associate of swindlers. A profli- 
gate, nay, an escaped convict,” cried the young banker, 
with a burst of irrepressible passion. 

“ Dear boy, there is some huge blunder in all this 
business,” replied Lyndhurst. “ It seems to me im- 
possible that a man of education, and with means to 
gratify every whim, should fall to that extent.” 

“ But it is so, nevertheless,” answered Warne. “ Six 
months ago, when I promised to undertake this matter, 
and attempt to sift it to the bottom, I had my doubts, 
as you have. Time has given me proof — absolute 
proof, I tell you. Hilton Fernbrook is an escaped 
felon— a murderer ! ” 

“ Horrible ! ” 

“Acting on the instructions given me by Uncle 
Trevor, I no sooner reached London than I engaged 
the services of Dusk, one of the ablest detectives 5 " of 
Scotland Yard. This officer, who can speak several 
languages fluently, and who, besides, has a knowledge 
of every swindler of note on the Continent, has tracked 
Hilton Fernbrook through many queer labyrinths that 
cover part of those three later years of his travels. 
Beneath the assumed name of Victor Mauprat, he has 


92 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

been guilty of crimes that should for ever debar him 
from the society of honorable men.” 

“ Lias the detective furnished you with written proofs 
of all this?” 

“ Conclusive proofs, Lyndhurst. Dusk is now here 
in Venice — arrived this morning. He sent me a note, 
asking for an interview. If you wish you shall be 
admitted to our council.” 

“Thank you, I accept. But, my dear Warne, why 
have you kept all these things from me ? ” 

“ Pooh ! I wanted you to enjoy your holiday,” re- 
sponded the other, lightly. “ Look, yonder come our 
friends, the Prince di Roumaine and his party.” 

And, as the young man spoke, there shot through 
the sparkling waves a state gondola, handsomely dec- 
orated. Under its satin canopy — ample as the folds 
of a gigantic balloon — sat a gay party of ladies and 
gentlemen, while around them swallow-tailed lackeys 
bowed and capered in attendance. 


CUPID. 


93 


CHAPTER IX. 

CUPID. 

No man was more popular in all Venice than the 
banker of the Rialto, Prince Elric di Roumaine. As 
his name implied, he was the worthy descendant of a 
noble family which took root in the stirring time of 
the Middle Ages. By close attention to business the 
Prince had amassed great wealth, which some day 
would be left to his only child, a blushing, beautiful 
maiden of eighteen. 

Ah, me ! How shall I describe thee, my dear Vio- 
lante ? How paint thy many and varying charms in 
words ? It is expected of me that I should try, so the 
picture shall be brief. 

An oval face, radiant with innocence, and as pure 
as that which Can ova saw when he dreamed of Eden. 
Hair, deep golden, with a shade of lighter hue streak- 
ing its luxurious braids ; complexion, a clear ivory 
white, and eyes that were neither blue nor black, but 
had a look of both at times in their lustrous depths. 
A noble, beautiful woman — for Violante di Roumaine 
was already a woman both in mind and person at 
eighteen. 

When you held converse with her you did not pause 
to notice whether she was dark or fair. The beauty 
and purity of the face held you in thrall, and you for- 
got such small things as ladies love to criticise in each 
other. The banker’s lovely heiress was gifted in mind 


1)4 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


as well as in person. Her friends said that she was 
cleverer than most girls of her age. What many found 
difficult she could master directly. She could play all 
the hardest things of Mendelssohn, sing as sweetly 
and correctly as Grisi. Many a dark Venetian youth 
sighed and pined for love of her, but they sighed and 
pined in vain. 

Weird, yet beautiful, was this moving panorama of 
light and life and motion on the Grand Canal. At 
Prince Roumaine’s request our two friends left their 
gondola and entered that which contained the banker 
and his friends. The barge had been fitted up espe- 
cially for the fete. Beneath its canopy were perfumed 
lamps, soft couches and piano. What strange, motley 
shadows those were which flitted to and fro over the 
wrinkled waters ; stalwart Turks, turbaned in every 
hue of the rainbow ; stately Moors, proud and silent ; 
Jews, Arabs, and Gentiles from every city in Europe. 
Save Fidele, Violante’s maid, the Princess was the 
only lady present. She welcomed the New Zealanders 
with that delicate, subtle courtesy for which the Vene- 
tians of the upper ten are famous. At a sign, Ralph 
Warne seated himself on a low ottoman by her side, 
while his friend, the novelist, went forward to gossip 
with the Prince and those about him. In no country 
on this vast globe does the love-god strike so swiftly 
and so keenly as in this land of the south. The hither- 
to cool, self-possessed, sarcastic, drawling masher of 
his class — the impregnable Warne— actually felt him- 
self tremble in the presence of the banker’s daughter. 
Beneath the battery of those lustrous eyes, wherein 
he saw himself photographed in miniature, how his 
heart began to beat and throb with a sensation he had 
never felt before in his whole life ! It was well they 


CUPID. 


''95 


were alone, except for the maid, who gave him the 
benefit of a rude stare, ere she retired to perform some 
message for my lady. It was well the cruel, merci- 
less, satirical novelist could not see his tremor, his 
nervousness. Ralph felt thankful that it was so. 

And this poor exquisite — this curly-pated son of the 
sturdy Auckland merchant — why did he tremble at 
sight of a woman ? Through those gold-rimmed glasses 
perched upon his nose, he had coolly surveyed hundreds 
as charming and as beautiful as this one, but he had 
felt no pang. Only twice before had he beheld the 
witching Violante, and each time Cupid had driven his 
dart up to the very feather in the tender soul of the 
scoffer. The unfortunate fellow was in love — in love 
up to his spectacles— but he was quite unconscious 
of it. 

Oh, youth ! Oh, love ! Who shall say the world is 
full of pain and groans of agony, when thou art near ? 
Oh, potent magician ! what' tears can quench thy burn- 
ing light! Aglow art thou in every human heart. 
Passion and sorrow may dim thy heavenly fire be- 
times, but charity, with her golden wings, wafts thee 
again into life, and light, and glory. 

And this pair talk. The little siren can speak Eng- 
lish passing well; indeed, well enough to be under- 
stood by her companion. The rest of the party heed 
them no more than if they were both figures of carved 
wood adorning the gondola. They talk of tastes, likes 
and dislikes, of eyes, hair, and what not. The New 
Zealander grows bold — nay, eloquent — upon the eyes 
and hair he admires in ladies. He draws a word- 
painted picture that has in it a startling resemblance to 
the Princess herself, but that lady, in her innocence, 
does not see it. 


96 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


By and by the conversation flags, dies out, and there 
is- silence. Ralph Warne, for want of something to 
do, pulls forth his cigar case, and begins to toy with 
it. 

“ I see you want to smoke,” says Yiolante, presently, 
watching him the while. “ Pray do not stir. My 
padre often enjoys a cigar while chatting to me. You 
may smoke.” 

Warne lights his cigar with a look at her, wherein 
there is expressed deep thankfulness. From the stool 
he glides to his full length on the soft carpet, making 
a cushion of that he had sat upon. She gazes down at 
him, dreamily watching the thin wreath of fragrant 
smoke rising from his cigar, and wondering why he 
should have been so kind and good-natured as to spend 
the night with her father on the Canal, when he could 
have enjoyed himself ,so much more at Madame Sar- 
doni’s, or the Bal Masque, or the Square of St. Mark ; 
wondering, too, whether in that country at the Antip- 
odes, of which she was so ignorant, there were many 
men so handsome, with such bright manly eyes and 
beautiful fair hair. Then she remembered that he was 
an Englishman, and she supposed that accounted for 
the strange, subtle charm that surrounded him. In 
short, she sat and speculated and pondered about this 
young friend of her father’s in a manner that was 
extremely dangerous to the peace of her innocent 
heart. 

“ So you have passed the whole of your life in this 
old sea-girt city?” he says, lifting his eyes to her 
face, and at the same time giving utterance to his 
musings. 

“ This is my home,” she answered simply. “ Yon- 
der, where you see the circle of light playing round the 


CUPID. 


97 


high tower, was born my great great grand-sire, Simon 
Vallette, the banker, who retrieved the fortunes of our 
house three hundred years ago. My father first saw 
the light from its windows, whilst I was nursed and 
cradled midst its gloomy corridors.” 

“ And your mother, she ” 

“ Alas ! I have no mother,” returned the young 
Venetian, quickly. “My sweet madre yielded up her 
life for my sake. Carissima ! It is a fearful thing to 
forget the sainted word 4 Mother,’ yet I have almost 
forgotten how to use it. You have a mother?” 

“ I have, God bless her,” cried the youth, fervently ; 
“ a dear gentle mother who would give up her life for 
my sake also if needs be.” 

“ Ah, carissima madre. How beautiful that is.” 

lie nods his head in sympathy, and puffs with re- 
newed energy at his cheroot. He feels he can go no 
farther in that direction, without being tempted to ask 
her to allow his dear madre to fill the place of the one 
she had lost. Of course the very unreasonableness of 
the proposition never crosses his thoughts for an 
instant. He is full of yearning compassion, of that 
strange force we call afiinity. This lovely brunette, 
with her lustrous eyes and her wealth of golden hair, 
is his loadstone, the one attractive power in the wide 
world to move him to good or evil. No power of mes- 
merism so potent as this. No known force, visible or 
invisible, so strong and irresistible as this first uncon- 
scious dawning of Love’s young dream. 

Try as they will, they cannot keep the conversation 
flowing. It is an effort to talk. Musing is much easier, 
much pleasanter, to both of them ; so they are silent. 
The ring around the banker Prince, at the other end of 
the gondola, are merry enough in all conscience. Con- 
7 


98 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERN BROOK. 

versation does not flag with them. The Prince is re- 
lating some anecdote concerning a distant relative of 
his, one Gaston de Roal. The name strikes familiarly 
on the ears of Warne, who rouses himself from his 
dreamy reverie to listen. “ Yes, a second cousin, I 
believe, or something of that sort,” says the banker, in 
answer to a question. “De Roal and myself were 
friends twenty-five years ago, and I remember him as 
a tall, handsome fellow. He got into a scrape in con- 
nection with some lady of rank in Genoa, fled to Paris, 
and eventually entered the army, served under Napo- 
leon in Italy, and then went to Algeria, and thence to 
Egypt.” 

“ I met a Colonel de Roal at the house of a friend in 
New Zealand,” remarked Alton Lyndhurst. 

“ It’s the same man, in all probability,” responds the 
Prince ; “De Roal earned his colonelcy by a dare-devil 
act, while with Vipont’s Brigade. There is a story 
current that he fell in love with and married Cleo 
Berenice, the most beautiful Egyptian lady of her time, 
and a lineal descendant of the voluptuous Cleopatra. 
Before the lady consented to become his wife, the 
Colonel had to relinquish the faith of his fathers for 
that of the dark traditions of the mighty Pharaohs 
and the priests of Isis. So the story goes,” continued 
the speaker. “ De Roal was just the wild mad-brained 
fellow to be taken by anything weird and mystical, 
and where in all the annals of religious history can one 
find anything so strange as the passage of the im- 
mortal soul from one body into another? Yet this is the 
faith of the Egyptians. The philosophy of old Pytha- 
goras called it ‘Transmigration.’ For ten years De 
Roal was not heard of by his friends. Amongst the 
ancient ruins of the classic Nile, he wandered with his 


CUPID. 


§9 


wife, and became initiated into the secrets of that dim 
lore that hath the Principle of Evil for its master. One 
day the Colonel returned to Venice, browned and 
tanned by the sun of Egypt ; no one recognized him. 
He retired to the village of Monte, by the sea-wall, 
and began to practise what the venerable Padre An- 
selmo termed the ‘ blacjt art of Beelzebub.’ ” 

“ Which means, that our friend the Colonel tried to 
raise the devil,” cried a stout merchant of the Rialto. 

“ By no means, my dear Boscari,” responded Prince 
di Roumaine, laughing. “ Colonel de Roal was a ma- 
gician of another kind. Among the grand temples, and 
the colossal weather-worn statues of Egypt’s gods, this 
man had found a secret that baffled doctors and priest- 
craft alike.” 

“ What secret, Prince? ” 

“ The great secret of healing,” returned the banker, 
gravely. “ Men who had thought themselves confirmed 
invalids were cured by him, by a simple wave of the 
hand. Others, again, whom the most skilful physicians 
had given up as past help, were restored to perfect 
health without nostrum or pill.” 

“ Corpo di Baccho ! It is marvellous,” cried another 
of the party. 

“ My good Antonio, there are some things that make 
a man famous whether he will or no. De Roal became, 
for a time, the most noted person in Venice. The 
poor, who found relief at his hands, dubbed him a 
saint. The clergy impeached him as a devil. Abbe 
Belleville laid an information against him to the Sen- 
ate, and De Roal was summoned to the Hall of St. 
Mark. Hector Bravoli, the Captain of the Guard, 
went in person to arrest the offender. When the 
officer communicated his errand, the Colonel rose to his 


100 THE SHADOW OP HILTON FERNBROOK. 


feet and confronted him. * Mio Capitano, you are a 
brave fellow to come here alone, to arrest one in league 
with Satan,” he said, smiling. “ Hark ! I have only 
to lift my voice, and yonder crowd without would rend 
you to pieces. However, I will not do so. See ! Look 
at me, Captain Hector Bravoli — straight at me — so ! 
Now, sir, we shall understand each other better.’ ” 

“ Was the understanding mutual, Prince?” 

“ Truly so, my friend,” continued the banker. “ Cer- 
tain it is that Captain Bravoli had no sooner fixed his 
gaze on the eyes of his companion than he felt quite 
powerless to withdraw it. Something there was in the 
look of De Roal which held the Captain altogether in 
bondage. Bravoli, it may be remarked, was one of the 
most fearless, as well as one of the most matter-of-fact 
men of the time ; therefore, it appeared all the more 
remarkable when he was discovered afterwards fast 
asleep in the Colonel’s arm-chair, and De Roal gone — 
vanished through the keyhole, or up the chimney.” 

“ And they never caught him?” 

“ No! The Colonel’s enemies cared not a straw 
whither he went, so that he was gone from Venice,” 
answered Prince di Roumaine. “ I believe he re- 
turned to Egypt. So much for my erratic schoolfellow. 
But see ! Here comes the procession of the Floating 
Palace.” 

A cortege of stately gondolas, with lights and banners 
and music, escorting a huge pile of lath, silk, and paper 
flowers. From every tiny peak and gable of the frail 
structure gleamed colored lights of every hue, while 
around and about there rose the jangle of a hundred 
guitars, and a perfect babel of tongues. 

Long after it had passed by, and when the noise and 
tumult came to them but in faint murmurs, the Princess 


CUPID. 


101 


and her companion still mused : she, of that new and 
pleasant love-light dawning upon her pure soul for the 
first time ; he, of what he had just heard concerning 
Gaston de Roal. All things have an ending. So 
with the waking fancies of Violante and her com- 
panion. 

“ Are you fond of music ? ” she asks, and before he 
can reply, she rises and moves to the piano. The groups 
around the Prince split up, and form again about his 
daughter. Violante looks round with a smile, and 
strikes a sweet low prelude : — 

SONG. 

Oh, wooing wind ! 

That steals, a subtle whisper, through the woods. 

The shy arbutus hears, 

Lifting her pinky ears 

And blushing, on her crumpled bed reclined, 

When she thy meaning bold hath understood. 

Oh, wooing wind ! 

Oh, wapton wind ! 

That tellest love-tales to the trembling trees, 

And in the rose’s breast 

Drinkest thyself to rest, 

And all the lily’s sweetness hath divined 

When June’s warm lips are murmuring to her bees. 

Oh, wanton wind ! 

Oh, cruel wind ! 

Piercing the forest with thy bloody spears ! 

Death to each rose that grieves ; 

Death to the outcast leaves : 

Fleeing for refuge, that they may not find 

Thy mocking laughter, shrilling o’er their fears — 

Oh, cruel wind l 


102 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


Oh, moaning wind ! 

Now are the gardens stript, the boughs are bare, 

For thee no weak buds blow ; 

Only this ghastly snow 
Over thy victims draws a covering kind. 

Well mayst thou sob and wail in vain despair, 

Oh, moaning wind ! 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! Sad, but beautiful,” cried Alton 
Lyndhurst. And the rest applaud too, and beg her to 
sing again. She complies. The girl has a voice match- 
less for purity of tone and sweetness. When she has 
finished the second song, the novelist, at the request of 
his friend, sits down to the instrument, and after a 
moment’s meditation, sings: — 

HEREAFTER. 

When all life’s storms are still, 

And all the noises into calm have passed ; 

When rest and quiet come to us at last, 

What matters good or ill ? 

What matters love or hate ? 

Calm hands are folded o’er a quiet heart, 

The wearied head is pillowed in sweet rest, 

And sorrow comes too late. 

What matters wealth or fame ? 

The narrow grave is all the earth can give, 

The deathless soul in other worlds shall live, 

And men forget our name. 

What matters aught of Earth ? 

The passing pictures of a shadowed dream, 

The changing eddies of a turbid stream ; 

Sure these are nothing worth. 


CUPID. 


103 


Why then despond, my friend ? 

For thee, at least, has come at last 
Sweet peace and calm, when toil is past, 

And Death is not the End ! 

No applause follows Lyndhurst’s song. Something 
in the voice of the singer — more, in the words he has 
chosen —forbids it. Yet the voice is a grand, manly 
voice, and one well fitted to the grave, quaint melody 
of the poem. Without a word, Warne crosses to his 
friend, and takes his hand. 

“Dear old boy, I understand you better now,” he 
whispers in English. 

The whisper and the reply, which is half a laugh 
and half a sob, are unheeded. Boscari is at the instru- 
ment. Hark ! The theme is still — Love. 

“ALTER EGO ” 

When the Eastern gates are swinging 
Wide, to welcome in the morn ; 

All the happy birds seem singing 
Of the glad hope newly born 
In my heart. In sudden rapture, 

I a fluttering breeze would capture, 

And would pray it 
Float above you, 

There to whisper 
How I love you ! 

As the day’s red ship moves over 
Stretches wide of sapphire sea, 

I would have a sunbeam hover 
Round your path to tell of me ; 

I would have it lay caresses. 

On your lips and in your tresses, 

Telling, as it 
Danced above you, 


104 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


That I love you, 

Darling — love you ! 

When the silver stars are gleaming 
In the dusky dome of night, 

To your pure and tranquil dreaming 
I would send a vision bright. 

You would see me, darling, near you 
Bending low, that I might hear you 
Whisper to the 
Lips above you, 

“Yes, I love you, 

Dearest — love you ! ” 

So glides the night away, until the glorious light of 
day illumines the swelling bosom of the Adriatic. 
ITark ! again : — 


Hail, balmy splendor 1 
There the morning breaks away 

From shades as tender, 

Shines early day ; 

The golden mists are rolling up 

The foam on morning’s amber cup ; 

Beneath the long uprisen line 
The valleys quaff the wine. 

Beautiful the gloaming 

Of morn, through veiling night, 

Scarcely, though seeming, 

Clear to the sight. 

Yet he still the faintest sign descries, 
And rings a paean as he flies ; 

The surly hours of night are gone. 
Arouse ! Behold the dawn ! 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


105 


CHAPTER X. 
love’s young dream. 

Fair the morning, and gay the banker and his party, 
as they drifted with wind and tide towards the pict- 
uresque suburb of Tel Delto. At Terra Fontaine, 
famed throughout the world for its glass, the party sep- 
arated. Prince di Roumaine would not hear of Warne 
and his friend leaving him yet awhile, but pressed them 
to accompany him to his villa at Del Grade, and spend 
a few days. 

The invitation was accepted with evident satisfaction 
by-one of the twain, and none the less so by the host’s 
fair daughter, who clapped her hands in childish glee. 
“Ah! you shall see the “ Bravo’s Leap,” and the ford 
where Bianca Paianzi perished, when hunted by the 
troops of the dreadful Inquisition. Mio padre, we will 
go home round by the stream ! ” 

The Prince nods approval. “ Violante is full of old 
legends,” he adds, by way of explanation. “ Bianca 
Paianzi and the Bravo’s Leap are local fables, nothing 
more ; yet the scene of their exploits may interest you.” 

They dismiss the carriage that has been sent to 
Fontaine to meet them, and breakfast at one of those 
old-fashioned roomy inns, only to be found in pictures, 
and around the sea-girt city of the South. It is a de- 
lightful meal, after their night’s vigil. From the 
diainond-paned casement can be seen the sea for thirty 
miles, with scarcely a ripple on its glassy surface. It 


106 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

appears a vast mirror, framed in with the distant hills 
of Florence and Milan, with a setting of extensive 
valleys that are vineyards and orange groves combined. 

“ Gentlemen, I have an appointment at the bank this 
morning,” says Prince Roumaine, when the breakfast 
is over. “ I am sorry business necessitates my leaving 
you, even for an hour. Pray pardon me. My daughter 
will play the hostess during my absence, which I trust 
will not extend beyond the hour of lunch.” 

Alton Lyndhurst looks across the table at the smil- 
ing pair, and forms a sudden resolve not to make three 
in company. “Prince, should I be in the way if I ac- 
companied you to the bank ? ” he asked carelessly. “ I 
have seen little or nothing of Venice yet.” 

“ My dear sir, I shall be delighted,” replies the un- 
suspecting padre. “ Come along, I will show you all 
that is really worth seeing with great pleasure.” 

They go out. Warne casts a look at his friend that 
has in it a mixture of delight and fear. 

In five minutes the banker and the novelist are Tat- 
tling along towards Venice as fast as a pair of # mules 
can carry them ; while Violante and the young New 
Zealander pursue their way on foot towards Del Grade. 
The masher feels dreadfully shy and palpitating. He 
turns over in his brain a thousand things with which 
to start a conversation, but fails utterly to produce a 
word. Presently he has courage to hope she is not 
tired. 

“ Tired ? ” she says, flashing round at him one of the 
glances from her soft, dark eyes — that twenty times 
this morning have made his heart leap ; “ why, we have 
not walked a mile yet. I often go down to the promon- 
tory yonder and back again before dinner.” 

“ Alone ? ” he asks. 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


107 

u Yes, of course alone. Padre would not walk so far 
to save his life.” 

“ Pardon me,” he stammered ; “ I thought perhaps— 
that is — that there might be someone else, er ” 

She looks at him with grave surprise. “ Whom else 
should there be?” she inquires. 

“ I don’t know,” is the ambiguous reply, but he feels 
an inward throb of satisfaction. 

“ My father and I are quite alone. This is the first 
time that I have had a companion,” she adds inno- 
cently. 

He gains courage fast now, and draws a little nearer. 
Don’t you find it dull — walking alone, I mean ? ” he 
says. 

“ Oh, no. There is always something to amuse me, 
some bird to listen to ; then, besides, the trees talk to 
me.” 

“ Trees ? I didn’t know they talked.” 

She laughs. “ Oh, yes, they do. Listen,” and she 
halts and puts her hand on his arm, which sensation 
stops him as dead short as if a bullet had gone clean 
through his anatomy. 

“ Don’t you hear them ? That is the leaves rustling 
against each other in the breeze. That is what I call 
talking. If you and I were poets, we should understand 
them, and be able to tell the world what they said.” 

Ralph Warne tilts back his hat, and looks at her. 
He would give something to be a poet — to be an inter- 
preter of the trees and the running brooks, and trans- 
late their language for her. How he envies his friend 
(even that friend whom he loves and honors with his 
soul) for being a poet. “ I am but a poor, ignorant 
fellow,” he responds humbly; “lam afraid the trees 
will never gossip with me.” 


108 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

His rueful face and the tone of his voice make her 
laugh again ; but there is an unmistakable ring of sym- 
pathy in it which robs it of all unpleasantness. 

“ Why not ? ” she says. “ Does your immortal poet 
Shakespeare teach in vain ? Does he not say that these 
dead stones have a language of their own ? ” 

“ I — I think he does ; but I haven’t read much, you 
know,” he responds in his depreciating way. “ I’ve 
seen Hamlet, and Romeo and Juliet. The former is 
certainly beyond me, but the latter is beautiful. Don’t 
you think so ? ” 

The Princess ponders a moment, her long lashes rest- 
ing on her cheek. Romeo and Juliet is a grand poem. 
It is a perfumed flower, with stiletto and poison hid 
amongst its leaves,” she says. “But of your great 
countryman : I can Hear the music of the stream. 
This is the ford. We shall have to cross here. 

Warne had been too much occupied with his com- 
panion to notice a river flowing between high cliffs, 
with stepping-stones in zigzag lines for crossing. 

“ This is called the 4 Bravo’s Leap,’ she says. “ Oh, 
dear me ! ” 

“ What is the matter ? ” he asks. 

“Why, the tide is rising; the stepping stones are 
almost covered.” 

“He looks down at the crossing and nods assent. 
“ Not half the stones are visible,” he says. “ We shall 
have to go back.” 

“Go back?” she echoes, at the same time consulting 
her watch. “ Nay, it will take a couple of hours to 
reach the inn, and one more to get a conveyance. By 
that time, caro padre will be distracted at my absence. 
We must cross,” she says decidedly. 

“ You will get wet.” 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


109 


“ I can’t help that,” she cries, with a laugh, and trip- 
ping down the bank, she stands gazing with a perplexed 
look at the flowing tide brawling over the stones. He 
flings the remnant of his cigar into the stream — walks 
in after it a little way, and extends to her both his 
hands. 

Violante shrinks back. “ You are standing in the 
water,” she exclaims. 

He laughs carelessly. Of course; what does it 
matter? It won’t hurt me, but you must not get wet. 
Put both your hands in mine and come slowly.” 

She hesitates a moment, then puts her small hands 
into his strong ones, which close over them firmly, and 
steps on the first stone. “ Now then,” he says, bending 
halfway towards the next one, “be careful to step 
firmly. Don’t be afraid.” 

“ I am not afraid,” she answers, feeling the firm grip 
of his hands, which seem to swallow hers and yet to 
hold them so tenderly. 

“ Bravo ! that was capital,” he cried, as stone num- 
ber two is reached. 

“ How deep the water is,” she says ruefully, looking 
down at his '-legs, against which the tide is rushing. 
“ How terribly wet you are ! ” 

“ Don’t think of that,” he responds pleadingly. “ I’m 
used to it. Now for the next one.” She manages to 
reach it, but no sooner has she done so than she utters 
a faint cry of dismay. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks, holding her hands 
tightly, and pressing nearer. 

“ Don’t you see ? ” she cries, nodding in front of her. 
“ The next stone is under water.” 

“ By Jovq ! so it is,” he drawls. “ What’s to be 
done ? ” 


110 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ I don’t know ; and I feel as if I were going to fall,” 
she adds laughingly, but with a little dash of nervous 
color in her face. 

“ Lean your arm on my shoulder,” he says, drawing 
closer to her. “ Lean hard ; you will feel steadier.” 

“ Thank you, you are very kind — and — the water is 
above your knees.” 

“ Never mind me,” he repeats. “ Now, what shall 
we do, advance or return ? ” 

Even as he makes the suggestion, he knows there is 
no going back, as she could not possible turn round on 
the sloping slippery stone. If she were his sister, he 
would make no more ado, but take her up in his arms 
and carry her across. He could do it as easily as he 
could carry a baby. But he dare not think of it. It 
would be sacrilege. Yet what is to be done ? Every 
moment he feels the arm resting upon his shoulder 
grow unsteady. 

“ I must go back,” she says, trying to laugh, but look- 
ing at him with dismay in her beautiful eyes ; then she 
glances over her shoulder, and her face grows more 

troubled. “No! I could not. I must try to wade 

after all, it doesn’t matter.” 

“What!” he cries. “You wade— impossible ; the 
water is awfully deep a little farther on, I know. Be- 
sides, you don’t suppose I would let you.” 

“ But I must,” she answers, with a sort of sobbing 
sound, meant for a laugh. “ The tide will drown us 
both.” 

“No, it won’t,” he adds, trying to speak carelessly; 
“ I— I shall have to carry you.” He makes the bold 
proposition, avoiding her eyes and looking straight be- 
yond her, and so does not see the wide-open surprise 
in hers, and the swift sucjden flush of color. 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


14 


“ Oh, no ! ” she says softty. “ I’ll go back, please.” 

“Look here, he answers, with a mild courage, such 
as men feel who step out to lead a forlorn hope. “ You 
can’t go back ; you can’t turn on this wretched stone ; 
and you can’t wade — you, a delicate lady.” 

“ I’m not delicate. I’m very strong.” 

“I don’t care,” he replies, waxing valiant. “The 
Prince entrusted you to my care. Pretty kind of 
fellow I should be to allow you to get wet, catch cold, 
and have a dangerous illness, perhaps ! ” 

She laughs at his eagerness, and encouraged, though 
she did not mean it for encouragement, he draws 
nearer to her, and puts his arm round her waist. 
Even at that moment his reverence for her almost 
daunts him, and he stands with a strange look in his 
eyes, and a sudden quiver of the lips. He has had his 
arm round many a lady’s waist, in waltz and polka, 
without any of that shrinking sense of outrage which 
possesses him now. 

And she, as she feels his strong arm around her, a 
thrill — mysterious, half pleasurable, half painful — runs 
through her ; but she cannot shrink back, even if she 
would, there is not room for it. In the moment of her 
hesitation she looks at him, then her eyes droop, and 
her face grows pale. With a sudden resolution he 
lifts her gently, and holding her against his heart, 
wades towards the opposite shore. He can feel her 
heart beat almost against his arm, the tips of her 
fingers just touch his neck, the lace on her dress 
brushes against his lips, and for a moment the keen 
delight almost overpowers him. He cannot go quickly, 
lest by a false step he should stumble and drop her. 
In his heart he wishes that the stream were a mile 
wide. The rush of the water is ecstatic music in his 


112 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

ears, for lie is in that paradise which men call “ First 
Love.” Trembling, not with fear, for she feels safe in 
his strong arms, a rapt feeling takes possession of her, 
too new and mystical for her to comprehend. Deep as 
is the water, uncertain as is the footing, he carries her 
as easily as if he walked the pavement of St. Mark. 
She does not know that he has set his whole mind on 
this task, and that every step is taken warily and with 
the deepest consideration, and that, strong as he is, it 
is just as much as he can do to keep foothold at all in 
the middle of the river. What a whirl of wild pas- 
sions are at his heart, making it beat like a steam 
hammer, as he reaches shallow water, then dry land ! 
He does not set her down for a moment, but stands 
trying to regain self-possession, to press back a mad 
intense longing to draw her still closer to him, and — 
kiss her. 

Honor wins, however. He bends forward so that 
he may set her on her feet ; but alas for honor ! At 
that instant a strand of golden hair, that has escaped 
from its coil, sweeps across his face, and catches in the 
pin of his scarf. With a faint awakening cry of pain, 
she puts up her hand to free it, her hands touch his 
face — the mad longing, like an unseen spirit, rises 
within him again, and overmasters him. Ere he 
knows what he is about, he draws her to his bosom 
with a fierce embrace, and — kisses her. 

Motionless she stands and looks down at him as 
some vestal might have done in the old Roman days, 
when the savage Vandal broke into the sanctuary and 
seized the sacred maidens. She says not a word, but 
in the wide-open eyes there is an expression of both 
fear and amazement. The dawning of a new life has 
come to her. The magic stream is crossed; from 


LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 


113 


henceforth the timid girl, innocent of the meaning of 
love, lias vanished forever. 

“ Forgive me, forgive me, Princess di Roumaine,” 
he pants breathlessly. “I was mad. Pray do not 
look at me like that.” 

Slowly a faint tinge of color comes back into her 
face. She draws her hands quickly from his grasp, 
and although her eyes are filled with tears, the voice 
is strangely firm and steady, as she asks, “ Why did 
you do it ? ” 

“ Because — because I was an unworthy brute and a 
coward,” he cried with vehement remorse. “Please 
don’t cry — don’t — I can’t bear it; upbraid me, send me 
away with the scorn and contempt I deserve. I will 
go — and never — never see you again. Never ! ” 

She clasps her hands tightly together and looks at 
him as he kneels penitently before her, in his dripping 
habiliments. His handsome face is full of sad, sincere 
contrition. She thinks swiftly of all his gentleness 
during the brief time she has known him, his care and 
consideration for her, of a hundred little trifles, looks, 
tones, that proclaim him a true-hearted gentleman. 

“Oh, why did you do it?” she repeats, her delicate 
brows knit and her looks fixed on his with solemn 
trouble. 

“ Why ? ” he echoes, with deep-drawn breath. “ Be- 
cause I couldn’t help it ; because I love you.” The 
words were out. 

For the first time in her life the banker’s daughter 
hears that which means so much in a girl’s life — be 
she princess or parlor-maid. A vivid crimson rushes 
to her face and neck, and goes, leaving her pale and 
trembling. 

“ It is the truth,” he goes on, pleadingly. “ I should 
8 


114 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

not have done it if I had not loved you. All ! Princess 
— Violante, say you will forgive me, and let me go. I 
will never come back, never trouble you again. Just 
say, I forgive you.” 

She scarcely heeds his pleading. Her whole soul is 
filled with these words, “I love you ! ” She thinks of 
love as she has read of it in books, not understanding 
it by any means, but treating it as something that 
never could by any possibility come within the range 
of her experience. 

The young colonist watches her face, and waits. 

Presently she turns, and says softly, “ It is but two 
short weeks since we saw each other for the first 
time.” 

“ True, only two weeks,” he says. 

“ And yet — ah ! it seems impossible.” 

“No,”' lie rejoins, his eyes glowing with intense 
eagerness to convince her, “ I repeat — I love you ! I 
loved you the first moment we met. My heart seemed 
to go out from me. If I talked for a week I could not 
explain. One does not learn to love. It comes unbid- 
den, and in a moment. That is it.” 

He rises and stands beside her, looking down wist- 
fully for some token of forgiveness to* show itself in 
the beautiful face, that flushes and quivers in doubt 
and astonishment. 

“ I have loved you from the first, else why should I 
have been in hourly dread of having to leave Venice 
and you — of never seeing you again ? ” 

She can’t unravel it at all — try as she will. 

“ The first evening I spent at Del Grade, you dropped 
this rosebud from your robe,” he says, producing a 
withered flower from some secret recess of his vest. 
“ I watched this rose, and longed for it, because you 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


115 


hail touched it. Take it back again ; I am unworthy 
to retain it.” 

She puts forth her hand without looking at him, and 
takes the crushed blossom ; it looks a poor sort of 
treasure, but she regards it thoughtfully, as if per- 
chance it might make the mystery more easy to her. 

“ I could not go until I had asked you to forgive me. 
But I will go now,” he adds firmly. 

“ No,” she answers softly. “ I forgive you.” 

“ Thank you ; I do not deserve it, I know,” with a 
pleading look in the bright blue eyes. “Shall I go 
now, and — and may I have that rose again — just as a 
token of your forgiveness ? ” 

“ It is withered and dead,” she says, holding it to- 
wards him, while the tell-tale crimson mantles her 
face. 

“ I shall keep it in remembrance of my love for 
you. When you have quite forgotten, I shall keep this 
and still remember.” 

“ And you — you are very sorry ? ” she asks, with a 
quiver of her lip, and an upward look at him. 

“No, I am not sorry,” he responds almost in a 
whisper. “ I am only sorry that you will not let me 
love you.” 

“ Let you ? ” she repeats, her eyelashes covering the 
bright eyes beneath. 

“Yes; if I thought that perhaps some time in the 
future you — you would try and — and love me ! Dear 
Violante, don’t be angry. Do you think that you 
could ever learn to love me just a little?” 

She turns her eyes up at him with religious sincerity. 
“I do not know,” she murmurs; “ I do not know.” 

“ It would make me so much happier, and I could go 
away without a pang of regret, Of course, I cannot 


116 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


expect you to care for me as I do for you. Why 
should you ? ” He goes on gathering courage every 
moment, as a man will do when he is doing battle with 
a woman for love’s sake. “ But, see now, supposing you 
were never — never to see me any more — I mean, all 
your life — should you be very sorry ? ” 

She thinks of all the brightness he has brought 
into her life in those brief days. “ Yes, I should be 
very sorry.” 

“ Look you,” he says, kneeling on one knee, his hand 
touching her arm pleadingly. “ Supposing — it’s absurd, 
of course — but supposing you knew that I was going 
to be married ; should you be sorry ? ” 

She does not answer, but her lips tremble with 
agitation. 

“ I can only think of one thing else,” he says softly. 
“ In that new land to which I belong, there is war — 
war to the death. Supposing that I never returned, 
and some months hence your father received a letter 
from mine, saying that the idle, frivolous fellow who 
aspired to your love had died — died with a weapon in 
his hand and his face to the foe. Suppose ” 

With a low cry, she turns to him, her hands held 
up to shut out the sight of this dreadful picture. “ Oh, 
no, no ! ” 

He takes her hands and pressing them against his 
breast, says fervently : “ Violante, I think you will love 
me. If you cannot bear to think of me as dead, then 
there is hope that I am not quite indifferent to you. 
Oh, Violante !— dear, dear, Violante ! — tell me the truth. 
May I hope that you will grow to love me ? Say you 
will ! ” 

u Ah ! but I love you, now,” she murmurs softly. 

Oh, how you frighten me ! ” for he has taken her in 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


117 


his arms, and pressed her to him with passionate 
devotion. He kisses the silken hair, whose golden 
brown strands are blown across his breast. “ Can it 
be true ? ” he says, half doubtful of the fortune the gods 
have showered on him. “ Why, only last night I was 
afraid to look at you — you seemed so far from me in 
your loveliness, your gentleness. And you love me — 
are you sure, quite sure ? ” 

“ Quite sure,” she exclaims, her eyes fixed on him, 
with a rapt look ; “ I cannot say why, but I am sure.” 

“ And you did not know this even an hour ago ? ” 

“ It was all so sudden, so strange,” she . murmurs. 
“Ho one ever spoke to me of love before. I had never 
thought of it. And then it all came to me like a flash, 
when you spoke of dying ! Ah, why did you do it ? ” 
shuddering. 

“ It was cruel, but I wanted to know if there was 
any hope for me,” he says penitently. “ I wish I could 
make you understand how happy I feel.” 

“ Perhaps I know,” she responds shyly, her face 
crimson. 

“ Violante?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Will you let me kiss you, now ?” 

She puts her palms upon his breast, and lifts her 
pure lips to meet his. And silence falls upon them. 
Save for the boisterous tide, a solemn stillness broods 
over the spot where the love-god reigns, and where 
he holds his vassals in a mysterious dream. 

The Princess starts up gently and pulls out her 
watch. Both of them had forgotten time and place, 
past and future. “It is past twelve, and your clothes 
are soaking wet,” she says. “ What shall we do ? ” 

“Get to the villa as fast as we can,” he rejoins, 


118 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


taking her hand in his. “ If you are tired, I can carry 
you, you know.” 

She blushes and looks at him reproachfully. “You 
are not to remember that,” she says chidingly. 

“Am I not? Very well. I’ll never speak of it 
but to forget it — impossible.” He draws the costly 
wrap round her as he speaks, and steals one more kiss 
of the golden brown tresses ; and they start for home. 
They do not talk much on the way, at least in words ; 
but every now and then his hand touches hers, and 
sometimes her fingers close over his with a gentle 
pressure. She is too innocent to hide her love. Her 
pure unstained soul is free to his gaze. 

He wonders what the Prince will say — how he will 
take it! How Lyndhurst will look when he tells 
him of Yiolante ! The poor exquisite is afraid of both, 
but he is resolved to fight the battle out as he began. 


PETER DUSK. 


119 


CHAPTER XL 

PETER DUSK. 

There is no lack of gloomy buildings in Venice, even 
at the present day. One of the most massive, and 
withal, dull and dreary as the outside of a jail, is the 
Hotel de Collotte. Its windows and balconies hang 
over the Grand Canal like the leaning tower of Pisa. 
The main approach to it is by the water-way beyond 
the Bridge of Sighs, world-famed in song and story. 

If the exterior of He Collette seemed mouldy, 
decayed, and time-worn, it by no means followed that 
its interior presented the same uninviting aspect. In- 
deed, all things considered, this hostelry was one of the 
best in the city, its host being no less a personage than 
a waif from the Emerald Isle, commonly known as Tim 
McClure, a fine upstanding fellow, six feet three in his 
socks, who had seen service under Wellington. How 
McClure came to be a publican in the centre of Italy 
was a question best known to mine host of the Hotel 
de Collotte himself ; certain it is that exile appeared 
to trouble him but little. He had evidently prospered 
and grown fat in the land of his adoption. 

On one of the overhanging balconies, above the canal, 
sat a thick-set man, lazily watching the receding 
autumnal sun illumining sea and sky away beyond the 
Adriatic. He was not a very tall man, but his sturdy 
limbs were stretched out in easeful indolence to their 
fullest extent, like one who thoroughly enjoyed a quiet 


120 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


rest after severe exercise. Ilis age might have been 
fifty or thirty, or anything between the two. Looking 
at him, you came to the conclusion at once that, what- 
ever might be his years, he had evidently taken good 
care' of Number One. He was altogether a common 
man, with a bullet-shaped head, and two prominent 
bumps thereon that a prize-fighter might have envied, 
providing the said pugilist had combined phrenology 
with fistiana. A common man, indeed, with no pre- 
tensions to good looks ; his hands and face are the same 
color as his tawny beard ; the mouth and the eyes alone 
show the index to the man. The first exhibits pa- 
tience and determination to an extraordinary degree, 
the latter glisten with the cunning of the fox, com- 
mingled with that animal courage of the bull-dog order 
which bites to the death. Such is Peter Dusk, detective, 
Scotland Yard, London, as he sits smoking on the 
veranda of the Hotel de Collotte, awaiting a visit from 
his employer. 

He has not long to wait. Ere the sun has dipped 
its disc in the molten sea, mine host thrusts his gray 
head through the doorway : “ A couple of gentlemen 
waiting to see you, sir.” 

“ All right ; show them up,” is the laconic rejoinder. 

The detective flings his cigar -over the balcony, goes 
to a small room on the opposite side to that by 
which the landlord made his appearance, and having 
locked the door, advances to meet his visitors. The 
veteran host retires, and Ralph AVarne introduces 
Alton Lyndhurst to the detective. 

“ Can I speak freely before this gentleman ? ” says 
the latter, after a pause, during which he produced a 
well-worn note-book from some secret recess of his coat. 

“ Certainly,” answers AY arne. “ This gentleman is my 


PETER DUSK. 


121 


friend, and, I may add, as much interested in the 
business you have in hand as I am myself. To save 
time, may I beg you will favor us with a brief account 
of what has been done since you took this matter in 
hand ? I have a motive, which makes it absolutely 
necessary that Mr. Lyndhurst should become acquainted 
with the facts from yourself.” 

Peter Dusk glances at the novelist, then opens his 
memoranda, and lays them on the table before him. “ I 
shall be very brief,” he says in his hard matter-of-fact 
voice, “ and will say what I have to say in my own 
way.” 

Warne, who is in the act of lighting a cigar, nods 
approval. 

“Mr. Hilton Fernbrook, a young colonist of ample 
means, left his home on June 21, 18 — , and embarked on 
board the good ship ‘ Stormbird’ for Europe, where he 
intended doing a long tour. In two years he managed 
to see most of the chief cities of Italy, Switzerland, 
Germany, and France,” says the detective. “ On Sep- 
tember 11, 18 — , I find he has visited London, and taken 
up his quarters at the Clarendon. From London he is 
easily traced to Paris, and from thence to an old town 
on the Rhine, called Kahlberg. At this place Hilton 
Fernbrook forms an acquaintance, in the person of 
Colonel de Roal, a great traveller, and an ex-officer of 
the French army. The colonel is a man of the world, 
with vast experience, but poor as a mouse. The young 
colonial has plenty of money, but no experience— ergo, 
the Colonel and Mr. Fernbrook become friends. They 
returned to Paris together, and spent the remainder of 
the season in the French metropolis. I trust I make 
myself plain, sir?” with a quick upward glance at 
Lyndhurst. 


122 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ From a reliable source, I next discover traces of my 
men at Alexandria, in Egypt. At Cairo the Colonel 
organizes a party to proceed up the Nile as far as 
Sinnevett. Without doubt this adventurous trip is 
taken at the instance of young Fernbrook. The Colonel, 
I repeat, is well travelled, and knows the mighty river 
as well as any native, therefore they need no guide 
save De Roal himself. 

“ The party consists of four men — our two friends and 
two Italian artists, together with a man-servant at- 
tached to the Colonel, an Arab, Rabez by name. 

“ At the town of Gliiza, one of the Italians fell ill. 
His compatriot remained behind to tend him, while the 
Colonel and Fernbrook, accompanied by the Arab pro- 
ceeded onward. 

“ Up to this point every link in the chain of evidence 
is as clear as noonday,” continued Dusk, leaning his 
arms on the table and looking full at his visitors. “ But 
I may here remark that, beyond that old Egyptian 
village, the information I received about my men was 
both perplexing and contradictory. It would be al- 
together out of place to detail how I discovered that 
Fernbrook and Colonel de Roal, together with the 
friendly Arab servant, had been captured by a fierce 
Bedouin Sheik, on whose territory they had unwittingly 
trespassed in crossing the second cataract of the Nile. 
Suffice it, I traced them to this spot, heard how they 
had been taken prisoners, yet, in spite of the resources 
at my command, I was unable to track them one step 
farther. 

“ I returned to Cairo, baffled but not beaten, and 
went back to London. From certain information which 
reached me three months later, I started for Paris, 


PETER DUSK. 


123 


and from thence directed my steps to Cairo. I had 
not been long in the latter city ere I picked up the clue 
to our two friends, Mr.. Fern brook and the Colonel. I 
may remark that, throughout the whole of my inves- 
tigations hitherto, I had not heard one word to sully 
the honor or morality of these two men. Now, how- 
ever, my inquiries led me into the most objectionable 
places. Gaming, dissipation, and objects of more evil 
repute, appear to have been the daily routine in the 
life of the Colonel and his friend. No one in Cairo 
seemed to hold such an unenviable notoriety as Mr. 
Fernbrook, who was known only as Victor Mauprat. 
It was on account of this change of name that my task 
became such a difficult one. My researches led me to 
double back to Paris and through most of the cities of 
Europe, until I picked up the clue at a fashionable 
gaming-den in the West End of London. Here, for a 
time, my work was clear and easy. One evening, Fern- 
brook, or Mauprat — which you will, for they are one 
and the same — was at play with some officers belong- 
ing to the tli Hussars, at the aforesaid den — politely 

termed a club. Colonel de Roal was also of the party. 
The play was high, and the players had been imbibing 
freely. 

“ Some time after midnight a dispute arose between 
Captain Vipont, one of the officers who had lost con- 
siderably, and Mauprat. Disputation ended in blows, 
and a duel was the consequence. It was just at break 
of day when this happened, and the whole party went 
forth straightway from the gaming-house to the scene 
of the encounter. The combat was with small swords, 
and a most bloody combat it was. Eye-witnesses 
swore that it was not a duel, but a matter of deliberate 
murder. I have a record of the event ; read it at your 


124 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


leisure, sir,” and the detective produced an old news- 
paper and handed it to Warne. 

“ Be that as it may, Victor Mauprat was arrested 
and placed upon his trial for killing Captain Vipont, of 

the th Hussars ; he was found guilty on the lesser 

charge of manslaughter, and sentenced to seven 
years’ penal servitude. Two of Mauprat’s confed- 
erates were arrested with him. One, a well-known 
card-sharper and swindler named Sharpe, with half 
a dozen aliases , was convicted at the same time. 
Meanwhile the news comes that Mauprat and one of 
his associates have broken out from Portland Prison. 
As they were never discovered, it is believed they 
escaped to Australia and made their way to Sydney, 
and there is no doubt in my mind but that these men 
seized the schooner ‘Seagull’ in Port Jackson. How 
they escaped from the burning wreck is the question 
to be solved.” 

“ Pardon me,” answered Lyndhurst ; “ if, as you 
aver, Hilton Fernbrook and Victor Mauprat are one 
and the same person, then I can vouch that the whole 
of the wretches did not perish as is supposed. Victor 
Mauprat, or Fernbrook, is now in New Zealand.” 

The detective smiled. “Mr. Warne repeated the 
same statement to me some days ago,” he said. “ Is 
not Sharpe there also?” 

“Yes, certainly. That is the name of his confiden- 
tial servant.” 

“ Then it is clear that Messieurs Sharpe and Mauprat 
escaped from the burning vessel,” remarked Dusk, 
quietly. “Would you recognize Fernbrook’ s likeness, 
if you saw it ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly,” repeated the novelist. “ His is a 
face once seen always remembered.” 


PETER DUSK. 


125 


“ Humph ! Is that anything like the Master of 
Fernbrook ? ” and the detective puts a photo into his 
hand. 

“Why, it is the man himself,” cries Lyndhurst, 
“ only the apparel is not that usually worn by gentle- 
men.” 

“ No, that picture was taken in prison after Mau- 
prat’s trial.” 

“ It is a faithful likeness of the man.” 

“ Do you know this one ? ” asked Dusk, producing a 
second photograph. 

“ That is Colonel de Roal,” exclaimed the novelist, 
in some surprise. “ The face here seems younger, but 
it is more worn and haggard that when I saw the orig- 
inal last. It is the same, however.” 

“Without doubt,” observed the detective; “and 
here we have the counterpart of the Ferret, alias Joe 
Sharpe.” 

“ This is a strange revelation,” responded Lynd- 
hurst, after a pause, during which he had minutely 
studied each of the three photos in turn. ‘I cannot 
refrain from expressing my admiration at your energy 
and tact, sir, in securing such a perfect chain of testi- 
mony as you have been pleased to lay before my friend 
and myself, concerning persons who have no right to 
mix with honest men. Now, may I ask what further 
steps you intend to take in this very strange and, I 
may say, disagreeable business?” 

“That will depend upon Mr. Warne,” responded the 
detective. “ One thing I would ask is, that the sub- 
ject remain as it is for a few days. Something has 
happened since yesterday which has greatly surprised 
me.” 

“Anything in connection with this case?” 


126 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“Yes” 

“ Have you any objection to say what it is, sir ? ” 

“ None ; providing you gentlemen give me your word 
of honor that you will not interfere in any way on the 
strength of my communication.” 

“We promise.” 

“Thank you. Well, then, gentlemen, I have seen 
Hilton Fernbrook, alias Victor Mauprat, within the 
last few hours,” said Dusk, gravely. 

“What! here in Venice?” cried Warne and Lynd- 
hurst together. 

“Here in Venice, gentlemen. There can be no mis- 
take about that,” responded the other, decidedly. 

“The thing is impossible,” answered the young 
banker. “ I received a direct communication from my 
father at noon this day, in which he states that Fern- 
brook was at the bank, on some business, while the 
letter was being written. My epistle has come by a 
route that Mr. Fernbrook could not travel, even if he 
had left New Zealand at the self-same time, which is 
an absurd supposition.” 

“I may have been mistaken, but I do not think so,” 
said Dusk, with his peculiar smile. “ Be good enough 
to leave the matter to me, gentlemen, and the day after 
to-morrow, at this hour, you shall have fuller informa- 
tion, I promise you. In the mean time, allow me to 
accompany you to your gondola.” 


TRANCE SHADOWS. 


127 


CHAPTER XII. 

TRANCE SHADOWS. 

Sitting. here in my lonely room, out of the rush and 
hurry and the roar of business, I became, as it were 
conscious of thoughts taking definite shape, and bear- 
ing me away to that other and more familiar world 
where buying and selling, cheating and lying, cannot 
enter. I have been there very often, so often, indeed, 
that many of its far-off, hazy labyrinths are well known 
to me. And what mazes, what countless, inextricable 
windings hast thou, oh, wonderful world of the Ideal! 
If I grow weary of hollow glitter, and the shams of 
respectable humbug, I have a safe refuge in thee ! 
There are no wailings of injustice, nor groans of pain 
and want, within thy fair domains. 

Men of one idea will laugh and say, This is the 
drivel of insanity. Let them say on. Ignorance is 
rampant and intolerant to-day, as it has been on many 
a day that witnessed the envious persecution of many 
of God’s noblest creatures. I have my talent, and I 
do not mean to hide it because your lordship sneers. 
What then ! Shall I pander to the teeming ignorance 
around me ? Go to ! 

Sitting here, with the evening gloaming gather- 
ing round and about me, my mind returns to that 
forbidden study that had its cradle in the forgotten 
v ages: — 


128 


THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERN BROOK. 


The God who floats upon a lotus leaf 
Dreams for a thousand years ; then awaking 
Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble 
Relapses into bliss. 

I see a form arise whose name is “ Ocl Force.” Men 
call it animal magnetism, and pronounce it a profane 
thing. Ancient Egypt jealously guarded its secrets 
from the mass of the people, not because they doubted 
its truth, but because it served the higher priesthood, 
who held a power seemingly Divine. 

Mediaeval Germany kept its mysteries from the 
public eye, inasmuch as the age that burnt witches, 
and imprisoned poor Galileo, was obviously not a tol- 
erant one. From the fragmentary writings of the old 
mystics came Mesmer, and with him Puysegur. 
These men showed the strange bond existing between 
man and the globe on which he lives, and how much 
he is unwillingly influenced by his fellow-creatures. 

Colonel de Roal had gone beyond both Mesmer and 
Puysegur in the abstruse study of electro-biology and 
clairvoyance. Determined and daring, with a will 
almost unconquerable, he had taken a stand which 
scientists and schoolmen had attacked and stormed in 
vain. Be it understood, this is not a treatise on Od 
Force. De Roal has been cast upon these pages as the 
personification of the principle of a comparatively un- 
known and, as yet, unrecognized power in Nature. If 
I can make the mesmerist interesting, dear reader, my 
task is attained. Belief is an intellectual concession, 
not always agreeable to self-love. To profess disbelief 
conveys an impression of superior knowingness ; there 
is, therefore, a great deal of skepticism which has 
scarcely any root but vanity. 


TRANCE SHADOWS. 


129 


The Barrier Rock stands gloomily out in the declin- 
ing light of evening. Fernbrook’s guests have de- 
parted, and left the old house cold and silent in its 
loneliness ; except for the Colonel and that uproarious 
giant, Drummond Blake, there is no one about the 
place, save the regular inmates. 

Within a room on the basement, whose windows 
face the sea, the setting sun glints upon three persons 
— Te Coro, De Roal, and the young Master of Fern- 
brook. To a casual observer, nothing could be more 
proper and natural than the position of the trio. The 
Maori girl, reclining upon a soft couch, had evidently 
fallen asleep over the perusal of a book, which had 
fallen to her lap ; Hilton sat by the window, gazing 
out at the turbulent ocean ; De Roal occupied a sort 
of recess behind the couch on which Te Coro dozed. 
A first glance at the room and its occupants would 
have left the impression that a quiet afternoon had 
been spent in conversation and music. Not so, how- 
ever ; the Colonel had sat in rear of the clairvoyant 
Maori girl for a purpose, and that purpose he had 
successfully accomplished ; yet it had been executed 
so skilfully that had even Rita, the suspecting, lynx- 
eyed old nurse, been present, she could not possibly 
have detected anything. But Rita was not there. 
The hard, stern, faithful old Maori was miles away, 
working, after her lights, at the mystery by which she 
found herself surrounded. 

Presently the Colonel rises and approaches the win- 
dow. His face has lost some of its ruddy color and 
smoothness, and there is one long deep line about the 
mouth denoting pain, or maybe some stormy internal 
passion held in check. 

“My son, here is my hand ; let us be friends as here^ 

? 


130 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


tofore,” he says blandly, holding forth his white slender 
palm, which seemed to belong to some high-bred lady 
rather than to a man. 

The young man looks up at him and grasps the 
proffered hand. “ My dear Colonel, I have never been 
unfriendly,” he responds. 

“ Tut ! Let us lay aside our everyday masks, mon 
fils” answers De Roal, smilingly. “Years ago, you 
and I entered the lists together against the common 
foe, humbug. Shall we become recreant knights, and 
swear allegiance to our enemy?” 

Hilton Fernbrook laughs. 

“Come, my son, we will clear the way to a mutual 
understanding,” continued the other, in his cool, quiet 
voice. “ I have travelled ten thousand miles to visit 
you.” 

“And spent ten thousand pounds out of the ex- 
chequer of Fernbrook in doing it,” chimed in the other. 

“ Pooh ! Money is not to be weighed in the scale of 
relationship such as ours,” says De Roal. “ What is 
the ten thousand against liberty, against the power 
and the splendor of such a domain as this?” 

“ Colonel de Roal ” 

“Call me pere, mon enfant ,’ interrupted the Colonel. 
“ There is a filial ring about the term which suits me. 
Basta! are you not my son?” 

“Truly, I am so,” returned the other with fierce 
irony, “the son of a great pere, who has, amongst other 
accomplishments, inherited the art of being the first 
rake-hell alive.” 

“Why not add, duellist, convict, and prison-breaker 
to the list?” inquired the elder man, with some grace. 

A strange harsh laugh broke from the lips of Hilton 
Fernbrook, “It would not be wise to hint such a 


France shadows. i3l 

thing, dear pere ,” lie said, with mocking sarcasm. 
“These latter graces belong to the son, perchance? ” 

“ Perchance ? And why not ? Mark me, I have 
made humanity my chief study for thirty years : I find 
certain forces at work around me which baffle the 
keenest foresight. Man must fufil his destiny, good 
or bad. Victor Mauprat may have been a gambler, 
felon, what you will, but if he were standing here with 
you face to face, he might look upon you as an arrant 
knave and impostor.” 

“ Victor Mauprat is dead.” 

“ One cannot say so for certain, my son. Ere now, 
men have come back to life that had been mourned 
as dead. Victor Mauprat may yet turn up in the 
flesh.” 

“ And if he does ? ” 

“Well, why do you pause, Hilton Fernbrook?” 

“ Only to say that if he does, mon pere , I will not be 
the means of sending him back again to Portland.” 

“Bravo! We shall understand each other pres- 
ently,” cried the Colonel. “ Now tell me ; what is the 
nature of all your correspondence with the Maori chief- 
tains? Are you going to help them secretly to fight 
the Pakehas ? ” 

“Why do you ask, Colonel?” 

“ Because I have a sword, and know how to use it.” 

“You want employment, mon pere?” 

“Perhaps. Answer my question.” 

“It is easily answered. I have joined the Maori 
host, and I mean to sink or swim with them.” 

“Egad! You are singularly brief, my son; and I 
may say, to the point.” 

“Words are empty sound. I mean to act,” re- 
sponded the Master of the Rock, with grim earnestness. 


132 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“ To me the coffers of this lonely domain are drained 
to the dregs. I mean to replenish them. Are you 
answered ? ” 

The Colonel stands and gazes at his companion in 
mute admiration. “ Tut, tut ! my son. The thirty and 
odd years I have spent in contemplating the motives 
of my fellow-men have been altogether wasted,” he 
says, in a reflective wny. “Most of all have I studied 
you, mon cher , but I find I don’t know you. Have you 
lost faith in Gaston de Roal, that you hide your hand 
from him ? ” 

“ I have hidden nothing,” responds the young man, 
quickly. “ What is there in joining the cause of these 
oppressed natives ? The land is theirs. They do but 
fight for their birthright. Besides, am I not their kins- 
man ; was not Hilton Fernbrook’s mother a Maori ? ” 

“ True, my son. The idea was cleverly conceived,” 
says the Colonel. “ A rebel is a much more respectable 
term than convict, and who knows but Victor Mauprat 
may come back ? ’Tis better to fight the powers that 
be, with a small army at your back, than to enter the 
lists single-handed.” 

“ And you have positively decided to jointhe rebels ? ” 

“ I have sworn to lead them to the end, win or lose,” 
cries the other, with uplifted arms. 

“ Ma foi , that was finely given, my son,” rejoins De 
Roal. At this moment, however, there is a low groan 
from the sleeping Te Coro, which causes the speaker 
to pause. 

“ Hush ! no more of this,” he says in a subdued tone. 
“ In your presumption you have thought fit to discard 
my counsel and advice, and disdain my aid. But I will 
prove to you, Hilton Fern brook, that I am all-power- 
ful yet, and that you cannot afford to lose my help.” 


TRANCE SHADOWS. 


138 


t( Pshaw ! More juggling,” returned the other, with 
curling lip. 

“Nay, you shall judge,” echoes the old man, coldly. 
“Draw near, and place yourself beside Te Coro.” 

“You have discovered that this girl is a powerful 
clairvoyant ? ” 

“Yes. That discovery was simultaneous with your 
own,” answers De Roal. “ Moreover, I have discovered 
that there is affinity, strong affinity between ye both. 
Apart, ye are poor waifs, tossed about by every pulf of 
air. Together ye are strong, for there is no strength 
like two sensitives in combination. My son, I have 
taught thee much, hut thou art yet only in the portal of 
this strange knowledge which the blind ignorance of the 
many term charlatanry. Sit down, I say ; and listen.” 

Hilton Fernbrook obeyed. Approaching the Maori, 
Colonel de Roal passed his slender finger-tips over the 
girl’s smooth forehead once or twice, and Te Coro sat 
upright. Except for the eyes, which were wide open, 
and had a hard meaningless stare, set and unwinking 
as those of a statue, the whole appearance of the face 
was that of one in a sound sleep. The Colonel seated 
himself opposite the Maori, and fixed his gaze upon the 
staring eyes before him. He never spoke to her once, 
but it was plain he held some mysterious control over 
her every word. 

Hilton Fernbrook looked from one to the other and 
smiled in disdain. Yet the sneer soon gave place to 
amazement. 

« This is a wonderful country I see before me,” cried 
the Maori girl, suddenly, but with a cold and measured 
tone of voice. “ Here are' hills clothed with vines and 
orange-trees, and beyond these a mighty city, set in 
the midst of the sea. The sun is shining- upon its 


134 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

domes and steeples, and upon the decaying ruins of 
huge palaces. The people in its streets wear a strange 
costume, and utter a language unknown to me. Ha! 
amidst the motley crowds passing to and fro I can 
discern one or two faces quite familiar to me ; Mr. 
Warne and his friend Alton Lyndhurst are there.'” 

“Did not the banker tell you that his son was in 
Venice?” cried the Colonel, without removing his look 
from the Maori. Hilton Fernbrook replied by a nod 
in the affirmative. 

“Mark you that, mon ami. What do these gay 
butterflies in the city of palaces ?” 

“ Seeking a clue, perchance, to Colonel de Roal ! ” 
responded his companion, with a sinister look. 

“Or to Hilton Fernbrook?” rejoins the Colonel, 
quietly. 

“ Hilton Fernbrook is here, mon pere. How can he 
be in Venice at the same time ? ” 

“ If you have courage to lock your hand within the 
palm of this Maori, you shall behold for yourself,” 
cries the mesmerist, in his calm tone, 

“ Courage ! ” echoed the younger man, scornfully. 
“ See, I obey you in sheer defiance,” and at the same 
moment he took the unresisting hand of Te Coro, and 
locked his fingers through hers. “ Come, O great 
magician, begin your juggling.” 

The Maori shuddered as the strong palm of the 
Master of Fernbrook closed on her own, but there was 
no perceptible change in her ; the large black eyes were 
still dilated to their utmost extent, but fixed and im- 
movable. There was a swift change, however, seen 
in the man at her side. No*' sooner had he grasped the 
tiny hand than his face became colorless. Huge beads 
of perspiration gathered thereon, and his muscular 


TRANCE SHADOWS. 


135 


limbs worked convulsively as one in mortal agony. 
The Colonel noted these things, though not for the in- 
finitesimal part of a second did he remove his look 
from Te Coro. He saw the powerful frame beside her 
writhe for some moments, then grow quiet and still as 
her own. There was a deep silence for several min- 
utes, and then the young man called out like one in a 
dream, — 

“ Colonel de Roal ? ” 

“My. son!” answered the other, smilingly. 

“ How is it we have returned again to these old 
haunts ? ” cried the voice of the trance-seer, in earnest 
tones. “Tell me why we have come back again to 
this accursed place.” 

“ What place, mon g argon t ” 

“The Piazza San Marco at Venice. Are you 
there, mon pere f I do not see you, although I hear 
your voice.” 

“ I am here. Are you afraid ? ” 

“ Afraid ! No. But why have you brought me 
here? This is the madhouse, where we imprisoned 
Hilton Fernbrook. Sacre ! What is this? Mes- 
sieurs Warne and Lyndhurst, with a third man, ask- 
ing for the lunatic whom you and I, De Roal, confined 
long ago ” 

A low smothered imprecation burst from between 
the thin compressed lips of the listener. With all his 
dark knowledge of the mystic power of Od Force, he 
evidently had not expected such important and un- 
welcome intelligence as came in broken gasps from the 
man before him. It was but for an instant, and the 
surprise vanished, giving place again to the set, smil- 
ing countenance of Colonel de Roal. “ Can you hear 
what these men say ?” he asks, in his subdued voice. 


136 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“Plainly; Perez Andrez, the Governor, tells them 
that the English patient whom they seek has eluded 
the vigilance of his keepers. He has escaped ! ” 

“ Escaped ! How long ? ” 

“I hear them say three days,” cries the dreamer, 
slowly. 

The Colonel seats himself and clasps his small hands 
tightly together. He tries to revolve the circum- 
stances of what he has heard within his mind, but he 
quickly discovers that the concentration weakens his 
power over the clairvoyant girl, who forms the lever 
wherewith he moves the Master of Fernbrook. 

“ Have they no clue to the whereabouts of the mad- 
man?” -says the mesmerist, after a pause. 

“None whatever. The trio depart, with disappoint- 
ment. Now they separate. The third man walks • 
rapidly towards the Department of Police and enters.” 

“Well?” 

“Now a dozen emissaries issue therefrom, and 
search the city. But it is a vain search.” 

“ Vain ! How ? ” asks De Roal, sharply. 

“ Because the cunning lunatic is not there, Colonel 
de Roal.” 

The Colonel draws yet nearer to Te Coro. Forcing 
all the will in him into the focus of his eyes, he says : 
“ Tell me if you can see the wretch whom these men 
seek ? ” 

There is a pause— a pause so solemn and quiet that 
the waves without can be heard, like the sound of 
muffled drums beating the “ Dead March in Saul.” 

“ Speak ! Hilton Fernbrook.” 

“ I behold a huge steamship entering the Mediter- 
ranean Sea from the Gulf of Venice,” responds the 
trance medium. “ On the deck of this vessel stands 


TRANCE SHADOWS. 


137 


the escaped lunatic. Mon Dieu ! how pale and 
wretched are his every tone and look. Hist! he is 
muttering your name, mon pere , and he couples with 
it that of Victor Mauprat.” 

“ What is the name of this ship, mon ami ? ” 

“The ‘Ripon,’ London.” 

“ /Sauve-qiri-peut /” quoth Colonel de Roal, as he 
threw himself back in his chair, completely nerveless 
and exhausted with his effort. He lies there, as much 
in a temporary stupor as those two who have been his 
victims. 

Te Coro has fallen back, with closed eyes, upon the 
couch. The trance has left her, and she sleeps. 

Released from the clasp of the clairvoyant, the 
Master of Fernbrook shivers, sighs, and, putting his 
hands to his throbbing temples, rises and staggers 
across the room like a drunken man. 

In upon the three comes Blake the giant, with his 
loud guffaw, “ Ma foi, Messieurs, you seem very 
merry ! ” 


138 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MAUD CARLING TON. 

The days are gladsome days for Ralph Warne, in 
the beautiful August weather and in that grand ruined 
old city by the Adriatic. With a boldness surprising 
even to himself, the young colonist has told Prince di 
Roumaine all, even to that episode at the Bravo’s 
Leap. The banker opens his eyes in wonder, and 
almost lifts his shoulder-blades to the tips of his ears 
in one amazing shrug ; but the Italian is a man of the 
world, and, though proud of his name and his race as 
any Spanish Don of the Alhambra, sees that his dar- 
ling might do worse than marry this handsome milord 
lnglese, the son of his New Zealand confrere . 

At first the Prince assumes a stern unyielding front. 
It is the policy of his clique not to give way readily. 
Violante is very young; she may change her mind 
by-and-by, he argues. Besides, his young guest may 
find a more suitable wife amongst the fair dames of 
his own nation, and so on. 

The combined efforts of the lovers, however, soon 
storm the citadel. There is no rest for the poor padre, 
morning, noon, or night, until, in sheer despair, he 
cries peccavi ! 

It is arranged that Violante shall remain with her 
father one year longer. If at the end of that time all 
things are favorable, Prince di Roumaine will journey 


Maud c Arlington. lay 

with his daughter to New Zealand, where the pair 
shall be married. 

The betrothed are satisfied with this assurance, and 
the days and weeks go swiftly by for them, in one 
sweet noontide dream of happiness. 

In these delightful autumn days Alton Lynd hurst 
set himself resolutely to work. The great book that 
is to be his masterpiece has been advanced a stage, 
but it has been put aside for other work just at present. 
News has come to him from time to time of the many 
changes that have taken place in Maoriland. A war 
of extermination is rending the colony asunder. Men 
are plentiful, but the Government coffers are empty. 
There are no munitions of war, save those raised by a 
patriotic band consisting of some twenty persons, 
whose headquarters are situated in the City of Auck- 
land. Lady Blanche Trevor and Victorine Gayland 
are among the foremost personages in the work. The 
latter has taken to the stage. Nightly, amid all the 
uncertainty and v terror reigning throughout the land, 
the Princess’s Theatre is crowded from roof to doors 
to hear Captain Hargrave’s daughter. Newspapers 
have columns in praise of her beauty and her talent. 

Musing over these things, the novelist has woven 
together a brisk comedy for the Princess’s, in which 
Victorine Gayland shall form the centre of attraction. 
He knows the kind of creation that will fit her, for, in 
the years gone by, he has studied her every tone and 
gesture. All this blue, cloudless autumn morning, the 
young author has been roaming restlessly about the 
old house at Del Grade, like a perturbed spirit. He 
cannot write — thought within him is too fanciful. To 
muse, and dream, and weave airy images, without form 
or connection, fits his mood. He goes down to the 


140 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

green hollow behind the banker’s villa, a dusky dell, 
in whose bottom lies a shining lake of clear spring 
water, rush-fringed and full of deeps and shallows. 
Standing upon the reedy margin, he begins to cast 
stones therein and watch the widening circles. 

“ My friend has won a noble wife,” he says to him- 
self, these fickle fancies of his shifting from the phan- 
tasmal world of polite comedy to real life and Ralph 
Warne. “ She is just the kind of girl for good women 
to admire and for erring men to reverence and avoid. 
Tut, tut ! Alton, my man, there is no danger for thee 
here. Few men of letters have ever mated with your 
superior women. Perhaps Shelley is the only instance, 
and he found his happiness by a fluke.” He throws 
another stone into the lake, smooth as the most placid 
mill-pond, when a well-known voice breaks in on his 
reverie. 

“ Hallo ! What ails the wanderer ? Why art thou 
musing here alone, instead of preparing for the picnic ? ” 
It was the voice of his friend, who came languidly 
forward with a mammoth cheroot in his lips. 

“ It’s infernally hot,” replies Lyndhurst, peevishly. 
“ I rather admire some people who are never content 
except when being baked or parboiled. To-day, I have 
no desire to test how much my anatomy can bear with- 
out being absolutely grilled.” 

“ My dear fellow, you are killing yourself with hard 
work,” says the other, in a more anxious tone. “ I 
have scarcely seen you for two whole days.” 

Lyndhurst laughs. “ Find a Juliet for me, and you 
will not see me at all.” 

Warne shifts his eyeglass with a nervous twitch. 
“Egad, I’ll do that, if you’ll only promise to play 
Romeo in proper form,” he answered. “Do you know 


MAUD CARLINGTON. 


141 


we are to have most of the notables in Venice at our 
al fresco party ? Besides, there will be our country- 
women, Mrs. Mason and her three daughters, together 
with the Carlingtons, who only arrived from London 
two days ago. Select a Juliet for yourself, and be 
happy. Our departure hence is close at hand,” with 
a sigh. 

“I wish it was to-day, Warne,” responds Lynd- 
hurst; then, seeing a look of pain on his companion’s 
face, he added quickly, “ so far as your humble servant 
is concerned. I have received a letter this morning 
from our unhappy island, the contents of which made 
me long to return at once. The Maoris have over- 
come almost the whole of the Northern Island, and it 
behoves every man of us to take up arms and repel 
them. Dear Warne, I feel like a kicked cur, daw- 
dling away my time, instead of being in the van with 
those who are striving for the salvation of our hearths 
and homes.” 

Warne sighs again, lights a cigar — his third since 
breakfast. “Lyndhurst, if we are not shipwrecked, 
you and I will be at our ports in little more than a 
month,” he responds, shaking his friend’s hand. 

“ In three days I intend to be in London. Thence, 
Maoriland ho ! To-day, will you join us?” 

“ With pleasure.” 

Alton Lyndhurst goes back again to the house, 
which by this time is beginning to fill with visitors. 
There are voices speaking in Italian and English, and 
laughter, and banging of doors, interlarded with the 
tones of a grand piano. One of the Miss Masons is 
hammering out Thalberg’s “ Last Rose of Summer,” 
in a manner which shows unmistakably that the young 
lady’s musical education is altogether of the florid 


142 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


school. Alton looks neither to the right nor to the left, 
hut goes up to his own room, a large airy chamber at 
the back of the mansion, overlooking the lake and the 
wooded slopes that rise from it. Poor Yiolante has 
vied with her kind-hearted parent in making the young 
colonists comfortable. 

Lyndhurst’s portable desk, a piece of furniture per- 
fect in its appliances, stands invitingly open by the 
window. Lyndburst seats himself thereat, and begins 
to toy with an ivory paper-knife. Tired of that, he 
amuses himself opening and shutting every tiny drawer 
of the machine, until his eye glances upon a photo- 
graph in a velvet frame lying in one of them. 

A woman’s photograph, naturally, or that thought- 
ful look — half tenderness, half perplexity — would 
hardly cloud his face as he contemplates it. A 
woman’s face, delicately painted as a miniature on 
ivory — not a common face, yet not absolutely beauti- 
ful ; features small and finely cut ; eyes, darkest hazel ; 
hair, auburn, the real auburn — the rich red brown of 
a newly-fallen chestnut, from which the husk has just 
parted. And such hair ! — it falls over the slender 
figure like a mantle, almost to the knees. The woman 
is dressed in some loose semi-classic robe girdled at 
the waist, high to the throat, but sleeveless, leaving 
the small round arm bare to the shoulder, the tapering 
hand displayed to perfection. The photographer who * 
posed the lady for this portrait must have been an 
artist. Alton replaces the picture with a sigh. 

“ I ought to write my level best for her,” he says 
to himself; “I can only think of her as Victorine 
Hargrave, the daughter of my Shakespeare-loving, 
jolly old friend — not as the fine lady with a huge for- 
tune and a fanciful whim for the stage. Heigh-ho!” 


MAUD CARLINGTON. 


143 


He turns over the folios of a closely-written manu- 
script, dips his pen in the ink : — 

“ ‘ Enter Cecil Ballinscote.’ No ! The muse has 
entirely abandoned me to-day. Smiling Thalia averts 
her face. Nothing but the classics will suit Yictorine 
Gayland.” 

The dramatist drops his pen, and looks drearily out 
of the window. In the matter of dreaming his Pe- 
gasus has a free rein, and manages to get over the 
ground at a brisk trot without the assistance of the 
Muses. “ Poor Yictorine ! ” he sighs, at length. “ It 
is useless attempting work to-day ; Cecil Ballinscote 
and the rest of the dramatis personae of my modern 
comedy are as dumb as the Sphinx. Provoking rather, 
for I thought I should have dashed off my three acts 
in a week or so, and posted it off to the Princess, and 
so have redeemed my promise. Pshaw ! Why prom- 
ise? Why trouble myself at all about her ladyship 
and her freaks? What is Mrs. Gayland to me?” 

It seems a knotty point to answer, considering the 
time he takes to ponder the question. lie thinks over 
it as he puts away his papers, and after that little task 
is accomplished, instead of going in to luncheon, he 
lights a cigar, and saunters off into the pine-grove, re- 
flecting as he goes : “ After all, I came on this trip 
purely for restf and recreation ; and I don’t see why I 
should worry myself into a fever about a play for Mrs. 
Yictorine Gayland to 4 star ’ in. I’ll go to the picnic.” 

By the time he reaches the meeting-place he finds 
his friends have mustered for the march, the ladies in 
an alarming majority. 

“ Ah, truant ; you have turned up,” cries Baroni, a 
rising violinist and a bachelor, but with a volubility of 
small talk equal to six ordinary bachelors. “ Cospetto ! 


144 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK!. 

we thought you were lost like one of the babes in the 
wood.” 

Count Palquin, famed for three things — viz., head, 
moustache, and paunch — is also of the party, and plays 
second fiddle to Baroni admirably. 

The party have decided to walk. A spot among the 
breezy hills of Santo Carlo is their destination, and they 
have arranged to return by moonlight. The way they 
go is pleasantly situateH among shady lanes banked 
on either side with ferns and mosses, with pine-trees 
rising high on the rough slopes above ; then past a 
group of mighty trees, beneath which recline in easy 
indolence a dozen or so of stalwart Bohemians halting 
for a mid-day rest. They have to climb steep and 
narrow patches of rock, ford a torrent here and there 
which impediments are provocative pf much mirth to 
our pedestrians. It is long past noon when they 
ascend the wooded range of the Mount, 

“ Don’t look round, any of you, tiil you come to the 
top,” cries Baroni; whereupon everybody turns instan- 
taneously, and there is a simultaneous gush of admira- 
tion from the English party. Behind them, around 
them, everywhere, in the sunny distance rise the hills, 
dark, and brown, and barren, painted against the light 
and the deep blue sky. 

“ How lovely ! ” exclaim all. 

“ You ought to have waited till you got to the brow 
of the hill,” says the volatile Baroni, vexed that the 
coup cVoeil should be lost. 

They halt on the crest of San Carlo, and look back. 
The panorama is a little wider here ; they see deeper 
into the wooded ranges, and the valley where the broad 
Del Pondo winds like a long silver serpent. They gaze 
out at the white dots, forming the homesteads of the 


MAUD CARLINGTON. 


145 


Vine-growers, scattered far apart among the hills, and 
beyond these, to the wide blue sea— still, calm, and 
glittering like a vast sapphire in the distance. For a 
moment all of them are as ardent worshippers of Nature 
as Wordsworth himself. But the air blows fresh on 
these green heights, and hunger begins to assert its 
sway in such a manner that there is a unanimous call 
to dinner. 

The meal is soon spread in a shady nook with a tiny 
cascade of clear water close by for making tea. Cold 
meats, fancy bread, strawberries, and peaches are fully 
appreciated after that long walk. The ladies consume 
orange pekoe in an alarming manner, considering the 
paucity of tea-cups available. 

“ It’s very odd,” says Alton Lyndhurst, gazing out 
at the undulating landscape before him, “ that men 
can turn their backs upon Nature, and shut themselves 
in houses like packing-cases, breathing sewer-gas and 
: such-like poisons, when they might have here the 
.essence of vigorous health.” 

“ Pooh ! my dear friend,” responds Count Palquin. 

The Italians are gregarious animals, one and all. 
Nothing so attractive to us as the crowd ; and, 
no doubt, that is a curious indication of how small a 
world we possess within ourselves. Such men as Dante 
could afford to inhabit solitudes. He had his world 
within.” 

“ You speak, sir, as if thoughts and fancies were 
better company than men and women,” says Warne, 
quietly. 

“ Perlacco ! Not I. I love this scene as a picture, 
but I doubt my capacity for being out of the thronged 
city,” replied the Count. “ The press and conflict of 
life is necessary to my being. I admire the country ; 

io 


146 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

but its beauty and its tender tranquillity would be the 
death of me.” 

“ Oh, we will consider this an enchanted isle, with 
Count Palquin for our Caliban,” whispers Baroni to 
Edith Mason, which remark sends that young lady 
into a fit of laughter just as she is about to sip her tea. 

They are very merry over their gypsy repast. When 
it is ended, the party begin to wander away in twos 
and threes. 

“ Now remember, ladies and gentlemen,” shouted the 
banker, “ we all meet at this spot at eight o’clock. We 
shall have a full moon to accompany us home.” 

“ Delightful ! ” It seems as if the Prince had ar- 
ranged for the moon beforehand. . 

Alton Lyndhurst and Maud Carlington wander away 
adown the bed of the cascade, where clusters of white 
Florentine lilies border its course like fairy sentinels. 
There is a soft musical ripple in the air, like the fall of 
many fountains ; overhead, the myrtle stands out green 
and fragrant, and from it comes the vesper-song of 
many birds. The novelist has remained by the side 
of the young lady during the whole walk, and has 
played Romeo like a man who has a part quite unsuited 
to him. He has carried on a fusillade of small talk with- 
out even so much as casting a glance at her, to satisfy 
himself whether she is fair or dark, tall or short. 
When he does look at her, he is surprised at the won- 
drous charm and beauty of her person. 

To a man of Lyndhurt’s enthusiastic yearning for 
the beautiful, a handsome woman had its attraction ; 
but his admiration went no farther than the mere 
gratification which beauty gives to the eye of an artist. 
In Maud Carlington, however, he found himself face to 
face with something loftier and nobler than simple 


MAUD CARLINGTON. 


147 


beauty. To one who imagined he had turned the world 
inside out like an old glove, and found nothing of fresh- 
ness or innocence in it for him, the sight of this fair, 
pure, girlish face, looking up at him in guileless enjoy- 
ment made him draw a deep breath of gladness, as 
if he felt himself in a purer atmosphere than the air 
of his everyday existence. The complexion is not fair, 
but has that fresh bloom which comes of an open-air 
life ; the eyes are darkest gray — so dark that, till they 
turn and meet his own, Alton thinks them black ; the 
hair is likewise brown and superabundant, for the thick 
plaits coiled closely at the back of the head are inno- 
cent of padding. A franker, fairer face never smiled 
upon mankind. No dangerous fascination here — noth- 
ing of the siren or the coquette in this young English 
maiden — no “ history ” in her glad young life. The 
novelist has plenty of time to study the face of his com- 
panion, as they wend their way over the heights of San 
Carlo. As a weaver of romance, he is naturally a stu- 
dent of humanity. He looks at the young lady thought- 
fully, almost reverently. To his fancy, she seems the 
very spirit of rustic innocence — not the innocence of 
the milkmaid or shepherdess, but of a damsel of lofty 
race, simple as Perdita, high-bred as Rosalind. 

She is certainly beautiful, more absolutely beautiful 
than he had at first thought her. The dark rich hair, 
which waves a little at the temples, the pencilled eye- 
brow, the noble modelling of the mouth and chin, 
might satisfy the most exacting critic. There is mind 
in that fair young face. 

“ I was so pleased to hear from Mr. Warne that you 
are the Mr. Lyndhurst,” she says somewhat slowly, 
“the author whose books have given us so much 
pleasure.” 


148 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


The novelist pauses, surprise depicted on every 
feature of his face. “ I was not aware that my poor 
effusions had travelled so far,” he responds quietly ; 
“ I am proud to think that our antipodean ideas are 
deemed worthy of perusal, however.” 

“ Fame, like truth, will make its way,” she answered 
gayly. “ By the way, do you know a certain Colonel 
Langrove of Mount Tapea ? ” 

“ Know him ! The Colonel is one of my most in- 
timate friends,” cries he. 

“ He is my uncle,” replies Maud Carlington. “ For 
some years we have had our regular monthly mail 
from the Mount.” 

“ With all its Kew Zealand gossip, newspapers, 
magazines, et-cetera,” interrupted Alton, laughing. 

“ Truly so. Mamma, who is a tremendous reader, 
devours a box full of literature every mail. I know 
she is not fond of novels generally, but she read your 
‘Ferndale Holme’ twice over, and was so delighted 
with it that I — being a woman, and having a woman’s 
ruling vice, curiosity — must needs peruse it as a matter 
of course.” 

“ Ah, if vanity had sway with me, I should be tempted 
to say that the prevailing malady of women had smit- 
ten me, Miss Carlington,” he answered, banteringly. 
“ Men are always curious to know — I mean especially 
literary men — what reception the airy creations of 
their brains may have at the hands of those who read 
and attempt to anatomize them.” 

She turns a shy upward glance at him, half- serious, 
half-arch. 

“ I cannot lay claim to any subtle dissection in the 
matter of fiction,” she says quietly. “ Your story is 
not like the majority of books I have read.” 


MAUD CARLINGTON. 


149 


“ Why, pray ? ” 

“ Because the characters appear so real and life-like. 
Men and women who have suffered and sinned, and 
the tales of sinning and suffering, with brief gleams of 
sunshine, are so vivid, that when you have reached the 
end of all you lay down the book, and wonder whether 
this can be purely fiction.” 

Alton Lyndhurst opens wide his eyes in astonish- 
ment. Were it not for the glad, girlish expression on 
her fresh young face, he would accept her words as 
the grossest flattery. “I did not know that young 
ladies of the present day — with their schools, their 
village poor, their housekeeping, gardening, church- 
going, operas, and what not, had time to study modern 
romance,” he answers, after a pause. 

“Perhaps it is because of one’s numerous duties 
that a quiet hour’s reading is all the more enjoyable,” 
she responds. 

“Ah ! Miss Carlington, you live only to do good to 
others. My ambition is but to win a shred of fame 
for myself. How sorry a business mine is in compar- 
ison,” he says, with a profound sigh. 

Ho surer, straighter way to a woman’s heart than 
self-depreciation. Maud Carlington turns a look at 
his thoughtful face. From that moment she is inter- 
ested in him. 

“ Fame has been, and ever will be, the noblest ambi- 
tion of man,” she responds, with just the faintest tinge 
of a blush rising to her face. “Who can be great 
amongst the mass, save those who have aspired to 
fame?” 

“True; yet there is no higher name than Grace 
Darling’s among English women. That lady owes 
her renown to heroic acts, not to genius. Come,” said 


150 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

he, with a bitter laugh, “ you were praising my book 
just now. Would you like to have written it ?” 

“ Nay ! ” she answers, raising her candid eyes to his. 
“ To have written such a book, I must have suffered — 
must have know the agony and the throes of some 
great sorrow. Providence has given me a happy life, 
among good people. I would not have your genius, at 
the cost of your experience.” 

Alton Lyndhurst laughs outright. “To be a good 
delineator of human nature, one must know the worst 
side of it ? ” he asks evasively. 

“ A painter must first receive the impression of his 
picture, ere his brush translate it on the canvas. It is 
the same in letters as in art,” she answers. 

“ Then, you do leave a margin for the imagination ? ” 

“Yes; but I ever bear in mind the old adage that 
‘ Truth is stranger than fiction.’ Your work of pure 
imagery is as a body without a soul — a lamp without 
light.” 

“ I am amazed, Miss Carlington,” he says, with a 
smile. “Do you believe Tennyson really felt the 
terrible depths of sorrow depicted in his weird ‘In 
Memoriam ’ ? ” 

“ Why not ? ” she asks, with a frank look upon her 
face. “ Who shall measure the petulant grief, even of 
a child ? The reason why I love to read Tennyson is 
because I feel better and braver after it, for he raises 
the whole tone of one’s being. I believe the greatest 
aid to his genius must have been his sympathetic suffer- 
ing with mankind.” 

Alton sighs and is silent. In abstracted mood he 
follows his fair companion wherever she may lead. 
They go slowly downward into a verdant hollow, where 
the ruins of an old temple, darkened with lichens and 


MAXTD carlington. 


151 


mosses and ferns, hides its mouldering stones. By the 
ruined column they cross a rustic bridge and stray 
along the banks of a water-course, yellow with rushes, 
water-lilies, and a profusion of forget-me-nots. 

Here they talk of many things — of books, pictures, 
eminent men, beautiful women, and lastly, of Maud 
Carlington herself. She is an only child, the last of a 
race who own Heath Grange, an old place away in 
the West Riding of Yorkshire, half monastery, half 
castle. The great Gothic pile is like a royal palace 
shut in by dense forest lands, which shelter in their 
recesses the dun deer and the gray heron by its pools. 
Around its ancient walls the rents made by the petro- 
nels of the Ironsides are still visible. Before the 
Plantagenets the Carlin gtons of Heath Grange held 
high office in the State. In those olden days the 
Grange had borne the storm and basked in the sun- 
shine of the ever-revolving wheel of Fortune. High 
nobles had made it the audience hall for kings. One 
of its rooms had held the captive queen, Mary Stuart. 
It had been the favorite haunt of Court beauties, 
where they had read and laughed over the last bon-mot 
of my Lord Rochester. 

The late descendant of the Norman family, Cecil 
Carlington, was a colonel of the Lancers, and the best 
swordsman in the British Army ; he perished in Scinde 
at the head of his regiment, while Maud was only an 
infant in long clothes. 

The old Grange had been deeply mortgaged before 
Colonel Carlington’s time, and was now about to pass 
away forever into the hands of strangers. 

“ And the old place will see you no more ? ” says the 
novelist. 

“No more ! ” echoes the girl, with a far-off look in 


152 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK!. 


her dark eyes. “ From henceforth New Zealand is td 
be our home. My mother has given a promise to join 
her brother at Mount Tapea.” 

“Do you go at once?” asks Alton. 

“ Not yet ; my uncle will join us at Naples. We are 
journeying there to await him,” she replies. 

They are interrupted by another bevy of the party, 
who join them, and the whole party made their way 
to the place appointed as the rendezvous. By the 
time they have had another refresher of tea it is quite 
dark, but up comes the round full moon, as the Prince 
had foretold, to light them home. The walk is delight- 
ful ! The old gables of Del Grade appear in view much 
too soon for some of them. 

“Good-night, Mr. Lyndhurst.” 

“Good-night, Miss Carlington.” 

Lyndhurst is tired, but he does not retire to rest. 
The morning found him musing— pondering still. 

lie will see her again — Maud of the rose garden — 
with her clear-cut face, not proud, but sweet. He can 
fancy such a face growing hardened with pride — grow- 
ing fixed as marble, were her mind outraged, the 
strong sense of right assailed, or the contempt for 
meanness once aroused within her. He has been with 
her but half a dozen short hours — nay, not so much. 
Yet the knowledge of her character has entered into 
his inmost heart, to be there rooted as if he had known 
her all his life. 


AT LAST* 


153 


CHAPTER XIV. 

AT LAST. 

Peter Dusk, the detective, sat in liis room overlook- 
ing the Grand Canal, and smoked until he had en- 
veloped himself as in a thick mist. It was his invari- 
able practice to smoke furiously while working out 
any mental problem. It must have been a knotty 
point at issue, for though it was early morning he had 
consumed several manillas over the subject — and that 
subject was none other than the escape of a madman 
from the asylum of a private madhouse in this city. 
By that queer method, known best to his class, of 
tracking crime and its perpetrators through their 
manifold labyrinth, Peter Dusk had found his man, 
only to lose him the next da}'. 

It seemed strange indeed that Fernbook, Mauprat, 
or whatever name the Master of the Barrier Rock was 
known by, should be discovered in a madhouse in 
Venice. But so it was. The detective had given no 
explanation as to how he gained the clue that led his 
steps to the asylum. It was sufficient for him that 
one of the lunatics therein was the person he had tracked 
half round the known globe. There was no mistaking 
the original of the photograph, which had guided the 
officer all through the long, patient search ; the simplest 
noodle would have recognized the likeness in an instant. 
The poor imbecile, with his great black eyes ablaze, 


154 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


pleaded hard with his countryman to set him free, but 
Dusk only shook his head in affected pity. 

Once without the walls of the asylum, Dusk hugged 
himself in momentary triumph. At last he had run 
his man to earth — had him safe under lock and key. 
To-morrow his employers should see Fernbrook for 
themselves. 

They went on the morrow ; Warne, Lyndhurst, and 
the smiling limb of the law. But he they went to see 
had gone — escaped, and had not left the ghost of a clue 
behind him. 

The sceptical novelist laughed at the whole affair. 
“I’m afraid you’ve been working too hard in this case, 
my friend,” he said in a kind way to the crestfallen 
runner from Scotland Yard. “I cannot but admire 
the tact and skill displayed by you in tracing the do- 
ings of Fernbrook and his friends, but when you affirm 
that he is here in a lunatic retreat in Venice, I beg to 
differ with you. Unless Hilton Fernbrook has the 
power of Asmodeus at his back, and can transfer him- 
self from one hemisphere to another with the speed of 
thought, I cannot see how it is possible he can be in 
this city. Besides, did not the proprietor of the estab- 
lishment say that this same lunatic had been confined 
there for over three years? How can you reconcile 
that statement with your conclusion that this poor 
wretch is the owner of the Barrier domain ! ” 

Peter Dusk disdained to argue, but he ransacked the 
whole city of the Doges from St. Mark to El Perdo for 
the escapee. It was of no avail ; there was no more 
trace of him than if the earth had gaped and swallowed 
him in the abyss. 

When all the questioning and searching was ended, 
Peter Dusk had gone over to Del Grade for further 


AT LAST. 


155 


orders ; but Warne and his companion had departed 
for London. 

So the detective smoked and reflected, and the more 
he smoked and cogitated the more puzzled he became 
over the whole affair. “ That Mr. Lyndhurst was per- 
haps right, after all,” he muttered, apostrophizing the 
table. “ I don’t see how a man can possibly be in two 
places at the same time. They say this Hilton Fern- 
brook is still in New Zealand — was at the Opera, only 
a matter of six weeks ago. How, then, can the man 
whom I saw in the madhouse be he? Yet, if this is not 
a striking likeness of the man I was sent after, I’m 
blowed! I’ll swear the escaped lunatic is either the 
devil, or the convict Mauprat. Humph! Let me 
think!” 

There was no one to hinder him thinking out the 
question in all its subtle bearings, and it took him some 
time ere he was weary of it. The little marble clock 
chiming noon roused him. 

“ Ah, well, I can’t see my way now,” he resumed in 
that quaint fashion of talking to himself. “ I’ll not 
give in, thopgh, not I. If that madman be alive and 
above ground, I’ll find him — though I don’t believe he’s 
a bit mad. A crazy fellow would not have acted nor 
spoken as he did. It’s no use staying here. The fellow 
is an Englishman, and he’ll make for London ; all sorts 
and conditions of men hide themselves either there or 
in Paris. If he goes to one or the other, I’m certain to 
hunt him out. I’ll pack up and be off, and try London 
first.” 

It does not take him long to put his decision into 
execution. A steamer is found ready for sailing, and 
Peter Dusk takes a passage in her. It is a cold, windy 
evening that finds him on the pavement of the Strand. 


156 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Instead of wending his way to the office in the Mino- 
ries, the detective goes to his lodgings on Ludgate 
Hill, and comes forth again within the hour, quite trans- 
formed in outward appearance. Calling a cab, he 
drives back to the Strand. “ If this man is in London, 
he’ll have a peep at the theatre,” he says to himself. 
“ Rogues or lunatics, it’s all the same. As soon as 
they’re let out of the cage, they are drawn to the play- 
house, as if by magic. I’ll begin with the theatres.” 

Dismissing the cab, he enters the doors of the Adel - 
phi and paying his shilling, ascends to the gallery, 
where he can see almost every person in the house. 
A few minutes suffice to convince him that the escaped 
madman is not amongst the audience there. 

From the Adelphi, Dusk goes to Drury Lane. In- 
stead of mounting to the gallery, he takes a seat in the 
dress circle, and looks round at the vast sea of heads 
and faces crowding the place. Away out yonder, near 
the stage, in the pit, the detective suddenly sees the 
man he is looking for. There is no mistaking that 
proud, dark, Spanish-like face, with the short cropped 
black hair and moustache. The man is leaning indo- 
lently against the stage-box, yet deeply intent upon the 
performance, and is dressed in a suit of sober tweed. 

Before the scene is concluded, Peter Dusk has taken 
a seat beside the man in the pit, and has satisfied him- 
self beyond the smallest shadow of a doubt that he is 
the escapee from Venice. 

“ Fine play, my friend ! ” 

The man turns and looks the speaker full in the face. 
“ It is a grand performance,” he responds slowly and 
in a rich manly voice, that had a tone of melancholy in 
it ; “ but it is badly mounted. In France they attend 
to those things more so than in England.” 


AT LAST. 


157 


“ Yon are not a Frenchman, sir ? ” 

“No,” replied the stranger, smiling; “iior yet an 
Englishman. I may say that I am a cosmopolitan, 
having ‘ travelled some,’ as they say in America.” 

“ Are you an American ? ” 

“ You are curious, my friend,” said the other, good- 
humoredly. “ In France, and even in the United States, 
they have a rule in society called etiquette, which 
means that rude questions are deserving of rude an- 
swers. If you are inclined to learn my nationality, I 
may tell you that I have none. I repeat, I am a cos- 
mopolitan.” 

“ Beg pardon,” said the detective, hastily. “ It struck 
me I had seen you before somewhere.” 

“You were a stricken deer, my friend, for thinking 
so ; we cannot possibly have met before.” 

“ I think we have,” cried the detective. 

There was a swift flash in the black eyes, as they 
turned with sudden and suspicious look to the face of 
the speaker. “Indeed! Where?” he' asked quickly. 

“ Have you courage to accompany me to the vesti- 
bule, and I will tell you ? ” 

“Why not tell me here?” replied the other, with 
some disdain. 

“ I have a reason, which I will give you also, if you 
will adjourn with me.” 

« Pray lead the way ; I am at your service.” 

Not another word was spoken, until the pair reached 
a small room adjoining the saloon bar. “ Now, sir,” 
said the stranger, seating himself, “tell me where you 
and I have met.” 

“At the Del Madilino, in the city of Venice,” said 
Dusk. 

If a pistol bullet had gone through the body of the 


158 THE SHADOW OF HILTON F£RNBROOIt. 


man then and there, he could not have evinced greater 
surprise. He stared at the detective in blank amaze- 
ment for fully a minute. “ Pray, who are you ? ” he 
said at length. 

“ I may answer after your fashion, and reply, I’m a 
cosmopolitan.” 

“You saw me in a madhouse in Venice?” asked the 
other, in a vacant way. 

“Yes, the Del Madilino, a private asylum governed 
by one Dr. Nicolini.” 

The other made no reply, but gripped the back of his 
chair with a convulsive clutch. 

“It is not many days since I was in Venice on busi- 
ness. I had occasion to visit Dr. Nicolini’s establish- 
ment. I saw you there.” 

“ I remember you now,” responded the other, after 
a pause in which he had recovered from his surprise. 
“You have disguised yourself, but I recognize your 
voice.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said the detective, coolly. “ Now 
tell me how you escaped from the asylum.” 

The man laughed. “ Still inquisitive ! ” he said, with 
mild irony in his tone. “ Are you interested, my 
friend ? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ Well, the story is too long, and I’m not in the 
humor to talk much.” 

“ How if I land you in jail, and send you back again 
to Venice ? ” 

“ My good sir, you are evidently in a fog respecting 
the law of England concerning lunatics,” answered the 
stranger, with a smile. “ First, you will have to prove 
that I am insane ; secondly, that I escaped from a mad- 
house.” 


AT LAST. 


159 


“ Did you not escape ? ” 

“ That is another question, my friend.” 

Peter Dusk reflected a moment. He felt that he 
had no lunatic to deal with in the person of the stranger. 
“ What if I send for Dr. Nicolini and prove your iden- 
tity?” said the detective. 

“ The doctor cannot prove my identity. Besides, he 
dare not set foot in London.” 

“ Dare not ? ” 

“ I repeat — dare not ! ” 

“ Why, pray ? ” inquired Dusk. 

“My friend, questions seem to be your forte, but I 
am not inclined to answer them. If you have any 
business with me, pray come to it at once, for I wish to 
see the play, out.” 

“ Do not be in a hurry,” said Dusk, placing his back 
to the door. “ Do you know who I am ? ” 

“ No ; nor do I care.” 

“I am Dusk, from Scotland Yard.” 

“Indeed! and pray, Mr. Dusk, what is that to 
me?” 

“ Do you know this photograph ?” replied the other, 
handing him a carte-de-visite portrait. 

The stranger looked at it, holding it to the light. 

Peter Dusk watched his face as a cat watches its 
prey. “ Well, what do you think of it ? ” he said. 

“ It is certainly my photo,” answered the stranger, 
gravely. “ The back of the card is marked Paris. I 
never had my likeness taken in Paris.” 

“ It may be a copy from London,” suggested Dusk. 

“Nay; I have had no photograph taken in Europe 
at all.” 

“ Here is another of the same personage,” quoth the 
detective, producing a second picture. “ You see, that 


160 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

was taken at Portland Prison. Perhaps you never saw 
the convict establishment?” 

“Never, upon my honor,” answered the man, with a 
gay laugh. 

“ Of course you haven’t ! ” sneered Dusk. “ Such a 
name as Victor Mauprat, for instance, has never been 
on your visiting-card. You have never heard of Sharpe, 
alias the Ferret. N or do you know anything of Captain 
Vipont, or the Salon des Dames at Nice. Oh, dear, 
no!” 

Again the man stared at the officer with a perplexed 
look. “ I think, my friend, it is you who have broken 
out of some lunatic asylum in the vicinity, if one may 
form an opinion by what you say. It is the particular 
craze of the lunatic to dub the remainder of the world 
insane.” 

“Your cunning rejoinder will not serve you,” replied 
the detective. “ You are Victor Mauprat, swindler and 
convict, who escaped from Portland Prison two years 
ago.” 

“You are certainly mad, my man; there is no mis- 
take about it,” muttered the stranger, at the same time 
keeping his gaze fixed on that of his companion. “ Poor 
devil ! it would be a pity to harm him. I might have 
guessed it, after all my terrible experiences in that living 
hell in Venice. Look here,” he cried aloud to Dusk, 
“ ring the bell and let us have a bottle of wine.” 

“ Don’t try to gammon me,” said the detective, with a 
fierce oath. “I’m Peter Dusk, and I mean to arrest 
you, Victor Mauprat.” 

“ Are you serious ? ” 

“ Certainly ! I haven’t followed you half over the 
continent of Europe and through Egypt to let you slip 
out of my hands now.” 


AT LAST. 


161 


“ I swear to you that I never heard the name of 
Victor Mauprat in my life till this moment,” cried 
the other, with such earnest emphasis that the officer 
paused irresolute. 

“ Do you mean to tell me that you’re not the man 
who kept the gaming-hell at Cairo ? ” he said. 

“ No.” 

“Nor the monte table at Nice?” 

“ No, I say ! Why do you accuse me of these 
things ? ” 

“ You are a study, my fine fellow,” responded the 
detective, with gentle sarcasm. “It won’t do with me, 
let me tell you. I’ve seen too many of your sort in my 
time. Answer me one thing: where did you get to 
when you and Sharpe burnt the ‘ Seagull’?” 

“ ‘ The ‘ Seagull ’ ! ” cried the other, looking at his 
inveterate questioner with a vague idea as to his sanity 
depicted on every feature of his pale, handsome face. 
“ Are you really crazy, after all ? ” 

“You’ll find that out presently!” responded Dusk, 
with a grim smile. “ I ask you again : how many of 
the jail-birds escaped the burning wreck besides the 
Ferret and yourself ? ” 

“ Who’s the Ferret, pray ? ” 

“ Your sham valet, and the biggest rogue in Europe,” 
said Dusk, with a sigh of impatience. “ Come, sir, you 
can gain no purpose by playing innocence with me. 
The game is up, I tell you.” 

The stranger sat down and pressed his hands tightly 
over his face for the space of a minute. Raising his 
head at length, and looking the detective full in the 
face, he said : “ My worthy fellow, you are evidently 

insane. Otherwise, you have made one of the most 
stupid blunders on record. You say my name is Victor 


162 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Mauprat, and that I am an escaped convict, accused of 
innumerable crimes.” 

“ That’s it.” 

“ Will you have the goodness to make things a little 
clearer as to my implication in these things ; also my 
identification with Victor Mauprat. I confess, you 
know, you have some ground for suspicion if the 
photograph is a faithful picture of the man you 
seek,” 

“ I have found him.” 

“ Very well ; I am satisfied if you will be good enough 
to explain.” 

Peter Dusk rang a bell on the table. “ Bring a bottle 
of wine,” he said to the waiter. When the man ap- 
peared with the liquor, he handed him a half-sovereign 
and a scrap of paper. “ Let that note be taken to Bow 
Street at once,” he said. And the waiter nodded and 
withdrew. “ It’s rather dry work, talking,” continued 
the detective. “ I’m not a dab at it at any time ; how- 
ever, I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been after you 
these last twelve months, and as I mean to be brief in 
explaining, oblige me by filling the glasses.” 

With his elbows on the table, propping up his hard, 
stern, sunburnt face, and his unwinking eyes fixed on 
those of the man opposite with lynx-like watchfulness, 
Peter Dusk recounted all the points in the life of Ililton 
Fernbrook, from his leaving New Zealand to his escape 
from the burning ship, the “ Seagull.” 

It would be impossible to describe the changes that 
came and went over the man’s fac& as he listened. Now 
fierce and frowning, with spasmodic clutching of the 
strong hands; anon smiling in absolute disdain and 
withering contempt. 

“ And now,” said the detective, when he had con- 


AT LAST. 163 

eluded, “ what you to reply ? You are the man — now, 
aren’t you ? ” 

“ I am Hilton Fernbrook, and Colonel de Roal teas 
my friend. That is my reply at present,” answered the 
stranger, slowly. 

“ You will have to accompany me to jail.” 

“ I am ready.” 

And the pair went out into the darkness of the 
night. 


164 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK 


CHAPTER XY. 

THE BANDOLINE. 

And now the world is winterly, 

The first love fades, too ; none will see, 

When April warms the world anew, 

The place wherein love grew. 

The great round globe has one more year added to 
its hoary age. So much the more of blossoming in 
what was once a wilderness in the far-away Southern 
Hemisphere, where the emigrant and the squatter have 
set the fresh print of their civilizing feet. 

Fair and pleasant New Zealand ! How many fair 
and lovely places within thy bright domain have suffered 
wreck and pillage at the beck of the angry War-god ! 
How many blackened ruins yet smoulder, that had been 
happy, smiling homes ! North, South, East, and West, 
the ravages of strife are everywhere visible. 

An autumnal evening, soft, gray, and misty in the 
country, as if thick with the smoke of burning home- 
steads. A pitched battle has been fought on the banks 
of the Waikato, between Titori and the colonists, and 
Titori and his hosts of dusky warriors have suffered a 
signal defeat. The city of Auckland is jubilant, the 
citizens are en fete over the battle won. Many of those 
grouped together in the streets are poor, unhappy 
people, who have been driven from their tenements in 
the surrounding district by the rebel hordes, and have 
had to take refuge in the, city. 


THE BANDOLINE. 


165 


It is the last night of August, and the first night of 
Alton Lyndhurst’s new and original comedy, “ Love’s 
Test.” 

Spite of the excitement and the depressed influence 
of war, spite of the sanguinary conflict being waged 
almost within the precincts of the city, this was to be 
altogether a great night in the dramatic world. The 
old Princess’s in Queen’s Street, had been demolished 
at the nod of one Amos Ward, a large mill-owner and 
Mayor elect, and in its stead had risen the stately 
Bandoline, capable of seating three thousand people. 
The new theatre had cost the Mayor of Auckland thirty 
thousand pounds, but what of that? Amos Ward is 
rich, a bachelor, and at forty is head over heels in love 
with the popular and universally admired Victorine 
Gayland. Save for that terrible engagement on Drury’s 
Plains, whereon so many Pakehas and Maoris lie 
side by side in death, the Bandoline and the beautiful 
young actress have constituted the sole topic of con- 
versation. The St. James’s, Liberal, Bohemian, and 
other clubs have discussed, with that after-dinner 
assumption of conscious ignorance which distinguishes 
the dramatic Sir Oracle, the artificial mode and the ex- 
travagances of toilet which astonish and delight the 
multitude. Even the terms with which the favorite 
actress has consented to remain on the boards for an- 
other season have been stated with an exactness which 
passes current for accuracy. 

Victorine Gayla’nd is something more than a mere 
favorite with the play-going public of Auckland. Her 
patriotic whim has been bruited about, and it is a 
matter to be counted upon that, whenever she appears, 
the seats from gallery to private boxes are at a premium. 
The all-important night of a new play has come. At 


166 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

a quarter before eight the dainty theatre is packed as 
closely as if it were a bon-bon box filled with chocolate 
creams. The critics are there in full phalanx, some of 
them with handsome wives at their elbows to assist 
them in forming their opinions, or at least to expound 
the merits of Mrs. Gayland’s dresses. 

The general public is here in full force, having paid 
its money, eager for the favorite’s triumph ; but that 
particular public of literature and art which, in many 
cases, has not paid for admittance, is the most notice- 
able. All these critical gentlemen display a lively in- 
terest in the event of the night, and have such a good- 
natured air that it is hard to believe that gall may flow 
from their pens instead of honey. The private boxes 
are all occupied ; pretty faces and bright dresses line 
the theatre. It has been so artfully designed that the 
gallery, though a fair place for seeing from, is almost in- 
visible to the parterre and boxes, being, as it were, 
effaced by a dome of gilded lattice, the most noticeable 
feature in the house, which screens the sun-burner, and 
tempers its effulgence. Above this perforated dome 
there are large skylights which open to the cool night, 
so that in warm and fine weather the Bandoline may be 
made almostan open-air theatre. The one private box 
which is not well filled is the stage-box on the left of 
the proscenium. 

Here sits a gentleman in solitary state — a gentleman 
of about forty, in faultless evening dress. His hair, 
moustache, and beard are of that rich brown which 
marks the type of the handsome and stalwart Anglo- 
Saxon breed all the world over. Seated on a stool out- 
side the box — but with his head above the cushioned 
partition, so that he can see his master — Phil Brock 
waits upon his master. 


THE BANDOLINE. 


167 


Phil is an Irishman of the old school, fifty years of 
age or thereabouts, but as hardy and as supple in mind 
and limb as an athlete of half his years. Hot-tem- 
pered and passionate, almost to the verge of insanity, 
when fairly crossed, yet Phil is one of the most kind- 
hearted and faithful fellows alive. For fifteen years 
he has followed the varied fortunes of his master, 
during which time master and man have become so 
accustomed to and dependent on each other, that the 
old confidential servant does and says almost what 
he pleases with the Mayor of Auckland. In personal 
appearance Phil is not elegant or beautiful, but he is 
scrupulously neat in his attire, and carries his short- 
cropped head high in the air, like a man who feels 
the importance of his position. 

“There’s Ward already in his den,” says Captain 
Jack Hemmington, of Pye’s Horse. “I wonder how 
he feels now the builder’s bill has come in.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” grunts his companion, Colonel Howe, a 
chemist by profession, but who has been obliged to 
take up arms in defence of hearth and home. “Amos 
' Ward thinks no more of settling for a building like 
this than you would of paying for a bottle of fizz at 
the Albion. He has more saw-mills than I have 
boots.” 

Opera-glasses are directed to the solitary gentleman, 
by this time, by many a marriageable miss and design- 
ing mamma. It is pretty well known that Amos 
Ward’s money is to pay for the building, that it is his 
venture. Of course, Mrs. Gayland has taken the les- 
seeship in good faith, and will pay her five hundred 
pounds rent for the season; but the straw-colored 
quilted satin, the amethyst velvet cushions, chair- 
covers, curtains, the crystal girandoles, with clusters 


168 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

of Parian candles ; the cloak-rooms with their luxu- 
rious appliances, the smoking divan opening on a wide 
stone balcony overhanging the street, where smokers 
may sit on warm nights — these and a hundred other 
details the bachelor Mayor of Auckland must pay for. 

There is excitement everywhere on this the opening 
night of the Bandoline. But excitement the most in- 
tense because the most suppressed reigns in Victorine 
Gayland’s dressing-room, an exquisite apartment in 
which is concentrated the costliness and taste of the 
whole building. Amos Ward had said to the archi- 
tect : “ Let this one dressing-room be as perfect as art 
can make It — simply that ; if you do not succeed, I 
shall consider the whole design a failure.” 

According to his light, and the material at command, 
the architect has obeyed. The Duchess of Marl- 
borough, in the plenitude of her power, had not rooms 
more elegant or costly. 

Victorine Gayland stands before the cheval glass 
dressed far her part. The long, straight robe, of white 
cashmere, rather improves than hides her slender 
figure. Each round, thin arm is clasped with a golden 
serpent, and a golden serpent binds her glossy hair. 
These are her sole ornaments. In an easy-chair by 
the fireplace sits Alton Lyndhurst, who has just been 
admitted to an audience, being altogether a privileged 
person, this evening ; he sees the magnificent dressing- 
room to-night for the first time, and is warm in his 
praise of its beauty. 

“ Beatrice Carson could have nothing better,” he 
says. “The place is worthy the heroine of ‘Love’s 
Test.’ ” 

Mrs. Gayland shrugs her slim shoulders with a de- 
precating air. “ How much more useful the money 


THE BANDOLINE. 


169 


this room cost would have been to the Patriotic 
Fund ! ” she replied. 

“No doubt; but his Worship the Mayor of Auck- 
land is not so imbued with the spirit of patriotism as 
yourself. People say he has built this room as a trib- 
ute to your genius.” 

Victorine’s dark eyes flash upon him angrily for a 
moment, and then grow grave even to gloom. “ People 
must have something to say. I suppose every puppy 
of the club thinks it the thing to scandalize a lady,” 
she replies, looking down at the folds of her drapery. 

“ You did not expect to escape when you allowed 
Mr. Amos Ward to erect this theatre for you?” 

“The Mayor of Auckland built this house as a 
speculation,” she says proudly. “ I am in no way con- 
cerned if he squandered his money upon this foolish 
room. I take it the place was not built absolutely on 
my account.” 

“Pardon me,” he says in a quiet tone. “The dress- 
ing-room is an honor to his worship’s good taste. And 
now, honestly, do you feel that you are going to make 
my poor effort a success ? ” 

« I feel as if I were going to break down ; my head 
is burning and my hands are like ice.” She gives him 
her small slender hand, stone cold and trembling. 

“ You will not fail,” he says decisively. “ The play 
will be a hit.” 

He knows that, with her highly-strung nature, she 
is sure to be greatest when she suffers most. 

« Oh ! I have never acted in a play of yours before ; 
think of that ! ” 

“ And never shall I have a character of mine so in- 
terpreted. You will breathe a soul into my mould of 
clay,” he answers warmly. 


170 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


She gives him a look which glorifies her pale face, 
very pale indeed now. 

“ Say one word to me, Alton, before you go,” she 
pleads with tenderest saddest beseeching in her voice. 

He comes to her slowly, takes the small braided 
head between his hands and kisses her forehead. So 
might a father or brother have kissed her in some 
solemn crisis of her life. He is so utterly an artist, 
that he understands every shade of the subtle feeling 
of art by which they are allied, that this hazard of suc- 
cess seems to him a solemn crisis. 

Victorine Gayland is not thinking of the play. 
There comes to her a picture of a green lane in sum- 
mer time. The warm glowing tints of late summer, a 
steep grassy bank on which wild ferns grow tall ; and 
two figures, her own and that of the man standing near 
her now; they are clasped hand in hand, her head 
upon his shoulder, her eyes looking up at him proudly, 
fondly as a girl’s eyes turn to her first lover ; but the 
picture is over six years old, and Victorine Gay land’s 
thoughts and feelings have gone through many a change 
within the compass of these years. She has changed 
her standard of value, and that which she then longed 
for, she now loathes as basest dross. All that she has 
of worldly wealth, all praise and homage that she has 
now, she would give in exchange for his honest love 
again. 

“ How much you have altered since last year! ” she 
says thoughtfully. 

“ For the worse, perhaps ? ” 

“Nay; I mean, you have grown serious— sternly 
serious.” 

“ May not a man be in earnest now and then ? ” 

“ Perhaps.” 


THE BANDOLINE. 


m 


Alton Lyndhurst finds they are drifting away on to 
dangerous ground ; lie therefore takes up his hat to 
depart. 

“I have invited some friends to witness the per- 
formance, and must join them,” he says. “ Before I go, 
let me take this opportunity to thank you for the kind 
and friendly interest you have shown in the production 
of my play.” 

A sudden feverish light comes into her dark hazel 
eyes. “ How can you talk of kindness and friendliness 
from me to you ? Alton, do you think I have forgotten 
—can you have so utterly ignored the past as to believe 
it possible for me to forget ? ” With passionate tears, 
which she tries in vain to suppress, she cries, “I threw 
away your love when it was mine— foolish, ignorant of 
my own heart. Oh, Alton, can it never be mine again ? 
Can the dear old days never come back ? I was little 
better than a shameful huckster when I wronged you, 
but the wrong was based upon the outcome of biting 
necessity, not upon the knowledge of your worth. I 
have been educated in sorrow to a clearer view of things, 
and my love has grown with my growth ; can I never 
win back what I lost ? Am I so worthless a creature, 
I whom the world praises, that my penitence and my 
love count for nothing with you, Alton ? ” she asks with 
piteous pleading. 

It is in vain for her to plead now ! 

Five minutes ago, and to Yictorine Gayland the con- 
fession would have seemed of all things the most impos- 
sible. The words have burst from her in a gust of 
passion, sudden as a stormy blast rushing in at a rashly- 
opened casement. 

After that last question she bows her head upon the 
mantelpiece to hide her crimson, tearful face. 


17 2 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOlC 

He approaches her, takes her hand in his hand ever 
so gently, and with grave tenderness replies, “ Victorine, 
the age of miracles is past, and in our days the dead do 
not come back to life. I shall be your friend always ; 
your lover, never again ! ” 


“LOVE’S TEST. 


173 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“ love’s test.” 

She did not weep, 

But o’er her brightness came a happy mist 
Like that which kept the heart of Eden green, 

Before the useful trouble of the rain. 

In most colonists’ lives there comes an Australian 
spring. Ere that trip to Europe was begun, Alton 
Lyndhurst’s favorite complaint was that he had lived 
his life ; that dreams and desires and even ambition 
had come to an end for him ; that he had no expectation 
of ever doing better work, or winning wider renown, or 
of being in any wise better or happier for the passage 
of the coming years. Yet to-night he feels the soft, 
gentle, fragrant spring within and without his whole 
being, as if a new world had opened its portal to him. 
In a word, he is in love — in love with a good woman, in 
whose faith and constancy he has no shadow of doubt. 

Within a month of his return to New Zealand, the 
young novelist renews his acquaintance with the Car- 
lingtons, who had already arrived with their kinsman, 
and had taken up their abode at the Mount. He has not 
much time for playing the gallant, inasmuch as he is 
busy with the publication of his new book, a story in 
which he has squandered the spare hours of his long 
holiday, and in which he has earnestly striven to rise 
out of the old conventional groove into something 


174 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

higher and better. Maud Carlington, who has been 
but as a passing sunbeam across his life, has deeply- 
influenced his thoughts — unawares, perhaps, but none 
the less — influenced the entire work, which he, in his 
heart of hearts, has dedicated to her. 

Alas for thy towering aspirations, poor scribe ! The 
book is a failure. Kindly critics recognize the intention 
of the writer, applaud the idyllic simplicity of the story, 
the purity of the sentiment, and give their readers a 
general impression of weakness and of a half-realized 
design ; in short, damn the whole thing with faint praise. 
The “ Thunderer,” ruthless as Jeffrey in his attack upon 
Wordsworth, says : “ Extract the acid cynicism and the 
half- veiled immorality from Mr. Lyndhurst’s style, and 
the result is about as palatable as lemonade without 
lemon or sugar ; ” and the great journal summing-up 
with that grand air of papal infallibility, continues : 
“ We advise the author to stick to the tinsel with which 
he has achieved some rather brilliant effects, and not 
waste his labor in deep-sinking operations upon an im- 
agination which does not abound in gold.” 

No voice in the land higher or mightier than that of 
the infallible “Thunderer,” though opinions vary in 
their estimate of that journal’s wisdom and strict no- 
tions of fair play. The review wounds Lyndhurst as 
keenly as if the people of New Zealand with one voice 
had acknowledged the critic’s judgment as unassailable. 
His book is the expression of all that was best and truest 
in his mind — and lo, the result ! His publishers politely 
regret that the book has not been quite so successful in 
the way of sale as his previous work, and gently hint 
that, having succeeded in one line, it is hazardous to 
attempt another. 

“ Thanks for the friendly caution,” says the poor 


‘‘LOVE’S TEST.’’ 


175 


author, with a forced smile ; “ but I don’t believe honest 
work can ever be thrown away. If my next should 
also prove a failure, the labor I shall have given it will 
not be the less helpful to me as an artist. There are 
books which a man writes which are like the solfeggi 
that make a singer’s voice flexible ; there may be noth- 
ing in the solfeggi , but when that voice attacks a real 
melody, the strength of past labor is its glory. I am 
ready to accept my failures as education.” 

In the midst of all this turmoil of criticism, the 
author received a note from Colonel Langrove, inform- 
ing him that the Carlingtons were in town, and would 
be glad to see him. They had accepted an invitation 
from the Honorable Bob Trevor, and were staying at 
his house, Shortland Crescent. He finds the Colonel 
and the Honorable Mrs. Carlington full of his new 
work. 

“We have been delighted over your pages,” says 
the widow ; and that we is very precious to Lyndhurst, 
because he knows that Colonel Langrove, her brother, 
is not a reader, and therefore is not included. “We 
feel as if this book had made you indeed our friend. 
All that was hard and cynical, all that had a false ring 
in your former works — pray forgive me if I am too 
candid — is absent here. The heart of the writer throbs 
in every page, and it is a noble heart. The book is 
full of truth and earnestness and faith in good things ; 
and I have no judgment of books or men if it is not 
ultimately the most popular of all your stories, and 
that to which you will owe enduring fame.” 

“ Let the ‘Thunderer’ go hang,” thinks the novelist, 
philosophically. “ One true woman’s heart has been 
moved by my work, one pure mind has recognized its 
worth. A fig for their praise or censure. Orpheus 


176 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


braved the burning blasts of Tartarus in quest of his 
love, and shall I do less for my art?” 

Philosopher and student of human nature as he is, 
Alton Lyndhurst is in love ! Man of the world, anato- 
mizer, he cannot mistake the signs in himself. One 
single word of praise has outweighed all the studied 
and labored thrusts of the “ Thunderer ” ; he forgets 
everything, from the C sharp minor of reprobation to 
the E flat major of mild approval of its contemporaries. 

Maud Carlington has lived in him and with him 
through all the varied stages of that twin world, the 
real and the ideal, accessible only to the true artist. 
She has been his model, around which he has woven 
his airy fancies, until they have stood forth fancies no 
longer, but living breathing humanity. 

While the last finishing touches are being put upon 
the Bandoline, he lives his life as of old, dines at his 
club, or at other men’s tables, flirts betimes, and says 
clever things, or is supposed to say them. 

Hampton House, on the Crescent, is the resort of 
the notables of the Northern Island, as its owner is, 
without doubt, the most popular man in the country. 
Alton Lyndhurst is a constant visitor. The grounds 
attached to the house are worthy an old English Baron’s 
domain in the feudal days of King John. The Kauri 
Parade, a strip of -turf a quarter of a mile long, bor- 
dered by giant kauri pines, which meet overhead in 
one unbroken leafy arcade, is the favorite walk of 
Major Trevor’s guests. Actors have studied their 
parts beneath its sheltered canopy, and greater actors 
on the real stage of life have rehearsed their parts here. 

One lovely afternoon, Maud Carlington and Alton 
Lyndhurst find themselves alone together on the Kauri 
Promenade : alone as Adam and Eve in Eden, and as 


“LOVE’S TEST. 


177 


forgetful of the rest of the world as if they had verily 
been the first people. There is silence between them, 
but overhead the ki-ki is pouring forth his parting 
song to the fading day. They are alone amongst 
vague fancies which are growing to strongest love. 

“Maud, you wear that flower for my sake. Does it 
mean that you will wear the orange blossom for me? 
Answer, Maud ; say yes-'-for none but me, all unworthy 
of your love, but chosen because 1 love so well. Look 
at me, dear — answer. My happiest thought in 
looking forward to this day was the thought that 
we might be alone for one brief moment, as we are 
now.” 

She cannot answer him just yet. One little hand 
plays nervously with the spray of fern, her eyelids 
droop over the soft violet eyes. He sees the dark 
lashes tremble on the rich bloom of her cheek before 
that lovely blush dies away and leaves her pale. 

“ Maud, are you angry with me for having dared to 
hope ? I know I am not worthy of you, that I am 
your inferior in all that is highest and best in mind 
and heart. I have known that from the day we met, 
that happy summer day on Santo Carlo, when we sat 
by the lily-fringed brooklet, and you spoke to me of 
my profession, with that sweet serious air of yours 
which made me think of Hypatia. But I love you, 
darling ; and true love must stand for the virtues I 
have not. I will love and honor you all the days of 
my life, and my nature shall be exalted by its union 
with yours. Love, will you take my life into your 
hands, be my teacher and the guide of my thoughts? 
That wide word wife includes all the rest. Will you 
be my wife, Maud ? ” 

, He has taken the hand he has yearned to take for 
12 


178 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOIC. 

months past, taken possession of it utterly, as if it 
were his own property. 

“ If I thought your life would be better or happier — ■” 
she falters, only able to approach the awful question 
in a lateral direction. 

“It will be happier, better, brighter, and ever so 
much longer. If you were to deny me, Maud, the 
remnant of my wretched existence would be squandered 
on riotous nights, sleeplessness, and brandy. You 
mean yes, darling. I shall see the waxen orange 
flowers in your dark hair worn for me. You will take 
me, faulty as I am, believe in me and in my future, 
and trust me with your young life. If truth and honor 
and ambition can brighten it, then it shall be bright 
for your dear sake.” 

Ilis arm is around her, and she is drawn to his 
breast in that sweet summer solitude. Her head lies 
there for one blessed moment, while his lips seal their 
betrothal — the first masculine lips, save her father’s, 
that have kissed her since she was a child — a kiss of 
sacred promise, never to be forgotten, sealing her for 
his own. 

Side by side they walk between the stately kauris, 
her hand drawn through his arm, and held there as if 
it were never to be released from that strong grasp. 
Silence -is dead and buried between them, and the 
melodious life around them is unheeded. 

“Alton,” Maud says gravely, coming to that one 
dread question which no woman refrains from asking, 
“ did you ever care for any one else ? Your first love — 
to whom was that given, and why did it not end 
happily ? ” 

“First love, Maud, is the offspring of fancy, and has 
its source in the brain rather than in the heart. Mi;:v 


“LOVE’S TEST. 


179 


came to a very prosaic end. The lady jilted me with- 
out a day’s warning.” 

“ Then, surely she must have been unworthy of you ?” 

“ Not unworthy of me, perhaps, but unworthy of 
my regret. I was wise enough to discover that, and 
therefore wasted no more upon her,” adds Alton, care- 
lessly. 

Maud is grateful to him for his candor, and yet a 
little disappointed. “Were you very much in love 
with the lady ? ” she asks. 

“ Over head and ears ; but I must repeat, first love 
is like one’s first champagne, a transient intoxication. 
The girl was accomplished, clever, and, .though not 
absolutely beautiful, graceful beyond compare. I 
thought her the most charming creature in the world. 
We had known each other from childhood.” 

“ Ah ! she must have loved you ! Perhaps she was 
influenced by the wealth of some less worthy suitor ? ” 
hazards Maud, slow to believe that anyone could 
voluntarily play him false. 

“ Possibly.” 

“Did she marry for money?” 

The frank countenance of the novelist darkens for 
one brief moment as with a spasm of pain. “ The man 
she married was one of the richest men in this country,” 
he answers slowly. “He died two years after his 
marriage, and left his widow two hundred thousand 
pounds in hard cash.” 

“ Have you ever seen her since then, Alton? ” 

Alton whirls the twig of fern he has been carrying 
away across the Kauri Parade. This is trying, but he 
endeavors to look unconcerned: “Yes, I have met 
her in society.” 

“But not often?” 


180 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ No, our lives lie far apart, Maud dearest,” solemnly 
looking upon her clouded face ; “ have no jealous fear, 
either of the past or the future. No rival can ever 
come between us two.” 

“Are you quite sure of that, Alton?” 

“ As sure as that I live and hold you in my arms,” 
he answers, clasping her fondly. 

“ Because, if there is the shadow of a doubt in your 
heart, leave me my old life. When we are married, 
all those for whom I have lived and loved I shall for- 
sake for your love. I shall want your whole heart, 
Alton.” 

“ It is absolutely yours, Maud. It went forth to you 
gladly, as a bird flies to meet the summer. It is yours 
for ever — the ever of man’s brief span.” 

“Mine for ever, I trust,” she answers solemnly. 
“ There is no heaven for you and me in which we shall 
not know and love, dear Alton.” 

On this August evening, in the glow of the golden 
sunset, the Bandoline is looking its brightest. The 
author’s friends are waiting for him — Maud Carling- 
ton, in palest gray silk, a crimson rose in her hair ; the 
Hon. Mrs. Carlington, and the Hon. Bob Trevor, with 
Colonel Langrove as aide-de-camp. They have a box, 
one of the best in the new theatre, all to themselves. 
Lyndhurst had arranged that a week before. The 
little party manage to get into their places in time to 
see the curtain rise on a scene as perfect as any which 
our realistic stage has ever offered to the public. 

Maud Carlington rests her round, white arm, half 
veiled by a Malines ruffle, on the crimson cushion, 
and fixes her eyes on the stage with that absorbed at- 
tention only known to those who have not done a season 


LOVE’S TEST. 


181 


in the metropolis. Alton Lynclhurst, standing behind 
her chair, feels as if all the audience were as nothing 
compared with one spectator. 

“Love’s Test” is no adaptation from the French, 
but an original domedy, full of strong dramatic in- 
terest. The text is vigorous, powerful, and replete 
with smart repartee, with keen and stidden touches of 
irony, so that the vast audience is soon roused into storm 
after storm of applause. 

Victorine Gayland’s part is one of the finest she 
has ever performed. The author must have known for 
whom he created the part ; the actress, how to enlarge 
his idea, and give it living, breathing form. 

Presently she enters, and while the audience applaud, 
those swift, dark eyes of hers glance round the house, 
She sees Alton standing behind Maud’s chair — sees 
him, and one little agitated movement indicates that 
she has seen him. 

The popular actress is in her best form at that mo- 
ment ; every nerve braced like those of the gladiator 
who knows that the greatest of Rome are witnessing 
his efforts. More than once in the course of the play 
the keen, dark eyes glance at Major Trevor’s box, and 
mark the fair freshness of the strange beauty. 

She stands atf the wing, unseen, and gazes her fill at 
Maud. The nobility of the girl’s face impresses her, 
just as it impressed Alton at Venice. Who is she? 
Some mere acquaintance of the hour, perhaps, to 
whom it is necessary for the rising dramatist to be 
civil. Yet how he bends over her chair, what a tender 
look steals over his countenance, as he stoops to hear 
her half-whispered praise of the acting of the play. 
Victorine Gayland turns from the sight sick at heart. 
She has not yet taught herself to despair of winning 


182 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

him again, despite those calm deliberate words which 
pronounced the doom of a dead love. She will not 
admit to herself that she has failed. He is proud, he 
is resentful ; but in his inmost heart the old love lives 
yet. The sight of this fair, new face has kindled a fire 
in her breast. She acts with a force which is new 
even to Alton. 

“ How natural, how wonderful she is ! ” whispers 
Maud, tears shining in her eyes. 

“ She is a great creature ! ” cries Alton, as the cur- 
tain falls. 

Bouquets shoot rocket-like through the air — whence, 
none can discover. “ Love’s Test ” is a triumphant 
success. 

Midnight finds Victorine Gayland sitting before her 
dressing-table, looking at her haggard face in the glass. 
She has changed her stage costume for a cashmere 
gown made with puritan simplicity. Rigid and pale 
looks the small face, with its delicate features — a face 
that will assuredly soon age. Dark and threatening is 
the fixed gaze of the large hazel eyes, staring into the 
dimly-lighted mirror and seeing nothing. 

“ If he should love her,” she mutters, as if to some 
listening spirit, “ my hatred will be fatal to her ! ” 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


188 


CHAPTER XVII. 

BEHOLD THE MAN. 

Night over all things, sweet, mystic night ! Around 
the Barrier Rock the waves laving its rugged sides 
were jewelled with the mirrored stars. What a sooth- 
ing lullaby sings the sea in its night vigil ! In the 
terrace chamber overlooking the expanse of ocean sits 
the master of the lovely domain. He hears not the 
sea’s song, though the doors are wide open to admit 
the fragrant breeze and the soft music of the waves. 
He is quite alone in the old place, save for the Maori 
nurse, Rita. This woman has dogged his steps almost 
night and day for months, showing a face neither 
menacing nor friendly towards him, but ever on the 
watch, like a sleek tiger-cat waiting for a spring. A 
huge volume is open before him on the table, the con- 
tents of which completely absorb his attention. The 
book happens to be an exhaustive work on the various 
forms of madness, by an eminent Spaniard — a subtle, 
terrible book to peruse, inasmuch as the pages bristle 
with the devilish acts of cruelty perpetrated on inno- 
cent and inoffensive creatures who have falsely or other- 
wise been placed under the ban of lunacy. Spite of its 
repulsive contents, Fern brook is held as by a spell to his 
reading. Had he been less preoccupied, perchance he 
would have observed the entrance of a strange man, 
who strode quietly into the radius of the light, and 
then stood with folded arms, observing him. 


184 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


To many of us there is an indescribable feeling that 
warns us of the presence of an enemy, although we 
see him not with our eyes. In this case w~e feel rather 
than see that it is so. Sudden as the lightning flash, 
the student felt the presence of the intruder. Still and 
passive he sat, staring at the open page, from which 
all interest had abruptly gone ; though he lifted not 
his eyes, he knew someone stood there, stern and silent 
as Nemesis. 

The Master of Fernbrook lifted his eyes at length, 
and lo ! he beheld a strange and exact likeness of him- 
self in every detail — height, complexion, features, hair, 
look. The stranger stood there, his very counter- 
part — shape and shadow. 

If Hilton Fernbrook could have known fear, then 
must the sight of this silent wraith of himself have 
made him tremble. Not fear indeed, but the greater 
dread, terror, took possession of him for one brief mo- 
ment, and made him gasp for breath. Save for the 
garb he wore, the intruder was Hilton Fernbrook, as 
much as he who sat and stared in unspeakable amaze- 
ment. If, as some subtle thinkers affirm, it be possible 
to give the soul a glance at the body that encrusts it 
while that casing is under the influence of trance, 
then was he whom the world knew as the Master of 
Fernbrook entranced, for there he beheld all that was 
of him in resemblance of bodily form standing before 
him. 

For a moment only that trance lasted. The strong 
will of the man soon asserted itself with a potent sway 
over every other feeling. “How came you hither?” 
he said to the stranger, and the stranger replied, 
“ The doors are open. In the absence of servants I 
entered unannounced, and by the door, of course.” 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


185 


It Was only in the tone of voice that the great and 
striking likeness between the two men diverged. Yet 
even that might be accounted for, inasmuch as the 
stranger spoke coolly and with great self-posses- 
sion, while Fernbrook was hoarse with suppressed 
emotion. 

“ It is not usual for gentlemen to walk into one’s 
private chamber without even so much as a prepara- 
tory cough,” said the latter, regaining fast that savoir 
faireetdire which was habitual to him. 

“ True. But there was no reason why I should 
announce myself. I am native here, and belong to the 
place,” replied he. 

“ What insolence is this ? Who are you, and what 
is your business?” cried Fernbrook. 

“My friend, you ask questions which cannot be 
answered in a breath. I have done myself the honor 
to return to Fernbrook, after a long and, I may add, 
weary absence.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ A man has surely a just right to enter his own 
house when and how he pleases,” said the stranger, not 
heeding the interjection. “ I should have been in New 
Zealand some few years ago, had I not been involun- 
tarily detained.” 

“ Ah ! against your will, eh ? ” 

“ Certainly, as you say — against my will.” 

, Hilton Fernbrook stares at the intruder, then rises 
and closes the doors and windows, which he fastens 
securely on the inside. This done, he mounts a chair 
and severs the bell-rope beyond reach. The stranger 
watches him with indifference. Lighting a cigar, 
he walks quietly to the fireplace, and places his back 
thereto. 


186 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ I trust you do not object to my weed ? ” he says 
to the other, who has seated himself on the further side 
of the room, near a large writing-desk, the drawer of 
which he opens with a key. 

“No, I cannot object to anything a lunatic may do. 
Madmen are not answerable for their actions.” 

“ Madmen ? Oh, I see, your thoughts are running 
on the book you have been reading. The study of 
madness is not a very pleasant one, I take it.” 

“ It will be beneficial in this case. My reading may 
enable me to understand you.” 

“ I doubt it, my friend,” said the stranger. “ The 
truly insane have one remarkable quality.” 

“What is that?” 

“ The first and last idea of your lunatic is that all 
mankind is crazy except himself.” 

“That is your idea, is it not?” 

“ No. I am addressing one who has the cunning of 
fifty madmen without their insanity. That should be 
sufficient illustration to convince you.” 

“ If you are not insane, I ask again what brings 
you here ? ” cried Fernbrook, in rising anger. 

“ Corpo di Bacco! as they say in Venice. Have I 
not said that I have returned to Fernbrook after an 
unavoidable absence ? ” 

“ Who are you ? ” the question was hissed rather 
than spoken. 

The stranger took the cigar from between his lips, 
and, blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke upwards, said : 
“ I am an unfortunate fellow, one Hilton Fernbrook, 
at your service.” 

“You are a madman!” rejoined the other, after a 
brief pause. 

“ Tut ! You forget my simile,” said the stranger, 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 187 

regarding his companion fixedly. “ Let me repeat, my 
name is Hilton Fernbrook.” 

“ There are two of the same name, then ? ” 

“ Hot so. There is only one man of that name in 
Hew Zealand, and I am he.” 

“ Then who am I, pray ? ” 

“ I know not. There is a species of base metal 
known as Brummagem ware; sometimes it is difficult 
to distinguish it from gold. You may be a descendant 
of the Roman Cato, or you may be the common hang- 
man. Who, in these times, can truly judge a man by 
what he seems ? ” 

“ Sir, you are not complimentary.” 

“ Ho ; truth has strangled courtesy.” 

He who had been called the Master of Fernbrook 
rose to his feet. “ Look here, my fine fellow,” he said, 
with a deadly smile ; “ I have humored your non- 
sense long enough. If you have any business with 
me, be kind enough to state it as briefly as possible, 
else I shall begin to think you are here for some sinis- 
ter purpose.” 

“ Well, you may think what you please. I am here 
for a purpose.” 

“ Burglary, no doubt,” added Fernbrook. 

“Wrong, my friend. There is not even the good 
name of the place left.” 

« You are insolent ! ” 

“ Again I must plead truth as my excuse,” rejoined 
the man, in his cool cynical tone, which never changed 
one jot in its irritating smoothness. “ Perchance you 
have heard the story of the ass who put on a lion’s 
skin, and, it not being sufficient to hide his ears, he 
eked it out with the covering of a fox?” 

“I am not good at fables. Speak plain.” 


188 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“Listen, then, to plain English,” rejoined the 
stranger. “One fine day the unhappy lord of this 
poor manor went to Europe for a holiday. During his 
wanderings he made a friend and companion of one 
Colonel de Roal. The Colonel was a man of the world. 
Wise, polished, and well versed in all the arts of di- 
plomacy, he had travelled much and knew everyone of 
note ; such a man soon made himself master of all that 
had happened in the simple life of his young compan- 
ion. They travelled together — -had one purse. In 
short, Hilton Fernbrook treated and trusted this man 
as if he had been his father. Mark what follows. 
There came a day, out in the Soudan, when the younger 
of these twain was stricken down with sunstroke. 
While watching by his delirous companion, there came 
a thought into the heart of Colonel de Roal.” 

“What thought?” 

“To substitute Victor Mauprat, a convict, for the 
real owner of Fernbrook. The idea was promptly 
carried out, and succeeded. The sick man, raving in 
the throes of his disorder, was quietly conveyed to a 
lunatic asylum ; while the criminal, assisted by his 
confederate the Colonel, managed to break his prison 
bonds, and they came here in company to reap the 
fruits of their crime.” 

“ More fables ! ” 

“Is it so, Victor Mauprat?” responded the real 
Master of Fernbrook, with a sudden gesture of his 
arm. “ Stand up. Place yourself shoulder to shoulder 
with me, here.” And Fernbrook turned suddenly to 
the huge mirror opposite, and beckoning his compan- 
ion to follow his example, the two men stood looking 
at each other for several seconds. 

“You see how minutely we resemble each other. 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


189 


How easy for the criminal to step into the shoes of the 
honest man ! Why, one’s bosom friends would be at a 
loss to say positively which was the thief and which 
the gentleman under the circumstances.” 

“You are right,” returned Victor Mauprat. “I see 
the advantage the convict may derive from his won- 
derful likeness to, shall I say, myself? Luckily, I am 
in possession, and that in itself is an advantage against 
usurpation.” 

Fernbrook smiled. “ Ah, the fox peeped out then ! 
The lion’s skin will not serve at all times, Victor Mau- 
prat ; you have had a long innings, but you are stumped 
at last.” 

The convict sat down with a dull thud, and his face 
worked convulsively. “ You ruffian,” he said hoarsely ; 
at the same time his hand wandered to the drawer in 
search of something hid there. “ Your game is a bold 
one, but it is also perilous. Begone at once from this 
place, or I will denounce you to the police. You would 
saddle your name and your crimes upon me, eh ! You 
will find the hide of the ass covering the lion if you 
try any of such villainy upon me.” 

“ Humbug !” said Fernbrook, quietly. “The fox is 
apparent again. Look here; I have another trump- 
card. It is I who will hand you over to justice when 
I have done with you.” 

Mauprat laughed. “My good fellow, your impu- 
dence is really refreshing,” he said. “ Do you forget 
that I am master here ? Although you are as like me 
as one pea is to another, how will you prove that I am 
not Hilton Fernbrook ? ” 

“Easily enough,” responded Fernbrook, with his 
impenetrable coolness. “Victor Mauprat, while at 
Portland, was branded on the shoulder with the letters 


190 the shadow of hilton fernbrook. 


D. C., for attempting the life of a warder. This brand 
the convict will carry to his grave, for it cannot be 
effaced. Ha, ha ! Does the ace beat the knave ? ” 

With an oath, Mauprat pulled forth a revolver from 
the desk, but ere he could raise it to take aim, Fern- 
brook, who had been keenly watching his companion’s 
movements, quickly drew forth a similar weapon, and 
covered his adversary. 

“ Put down your hands,” he said, in a tone that was 
unmistakable. “ If you raise your finger I will shoot 
you like a dog. Do not imagine me such a goose as 
to venture into the hole of the fox without due pre- 
caution ! ” 

Mauprat laughed again, a harsh discordant laugh, 
with not a particle of mirth in it. “ I am a fool to 
quarrel with him,” he said, more to himself than to 
Fernbrook. “ What says your worldly sage : ‘ The 

true way to success is to smooth down all obstacles ’ 
Ay, that is it, sir,” addressing Fernbrook, who 
watched his every movement, and still held his revolver 
ready for use. “Let us shake hands, and talk over 
this matter in a friendly spirit.” 

“No, not one step nearer, Victor Mauprat,” cried 
Fernbrook, sternly. “I have prevented you using 
your pistol. I will also checkmate you in your design 
to mesmerize me.” 

A wild look, like that of a savage beast suddenly 
caught, came into the man’s eyes. Presently he sat 
down and said, “You have a final motive in coming 
here? ” 

“Yes. A man needs no excuse for taking posses- 
sion of his own. With reference to yourself, I beg that 
you will favor me with your attention for a moment. 
Victor Mauprat, you have committed many crimes, but 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


191 


the last on your list is the greatest of them all. I am 
not going to judge you, nor yet give you up to that 
justice which is clamoring for you, if you do my bid- 
ding.” 

“ What is your will ? ” 

“ In that small trunk,” continued Fernbrook, point- 
ing to a bag he had brought with him into the room, 
“ you will find a disguise— beard, wig, hat, and coat. 
Go into that closet to the right — you see I know the 
place well — and put these things on. Stop one mo- 
ment; I will relieve you of this dangerous thing,” 
taking up the revolver. “ You shall have ten minutes 
to dress, sir.” 

The man who had been known as the Master of 
Fernbrook for the last few years walked slowly across 
the room, and taking up the trunk, went towards the 
recess to which Hilton Fernbrook pointed. At the 
threshold he turned, and as he did so, his face was like 
that of a fallen angel. 

“ Where shall I go with my masquerade?” he 
said. 

“ Out into the silent night,” responded Fernbrook, 
solemnly. “ Out where the stars look down on the 
good and the bad. If you are not the convict Mauprat, 
what have you to fear ? Cling to that disguise if you 
are he, for I hold the hounds of the law in leash, and 
I swear to you I will slip them on your track with the 
first gray streak of the coming day. Go ! ” 

Slowly the tall form receded within the closet. In 
the space of five minutes there came forth a rough- 
hewn fellow, the picture of a coasting skipper. 

“ Ah ! my friend Bluff ! Glad to see you,” cried 
Hilton, as if he had only seen the man for the first 
time. “ I trust you will have a pleasant trip on your 


192 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

return journey I will tie the severed bell-rope and 
ring for some one to show you over the Devil’s Grip.” 
He tied the rope and rang. Presently Bosco, the Maori, 
came stumbling into the room with his gun over his 
shoulder. 

“ Bosco, my good fellow, Captain Bluff wants you to 
conduct him safely over the Grip.” 

The Maori paused, looked at the Captain, then at 
his master. Rubbing his eyes like one who has just 
^wakened out of a long sleep, he walked up to where 
the latter was standing, and kneeling down, kissed his 
hand passionately. 

“ Bosco is ready,” he said, rising, and with his gaze 
fixed upon the Captain. 

“Enough. A pleasant trip, Captain.” 

A moment, and Hilton Fernbrook stood alone. He 
listened to the retreating footsteps of the Maori and 
his companion, then turned and threw open the window. 
A glorious prospect to feast his gaze upon : sea and 
land under the soft subdued light of moon and stars. 
Long and weary days had passed for him since last he 
had looked upon that picture — a picture lovely indeed, 
but it was the wild grandeur of frowning Nature : the 
rugged peak, with its uncouth forms ; the sombre 
ravines, and the restless cataract that dashed between. 
The scene before him was doubtless in unison with his 
mind, for he stood there long in musing mood. “ Dis- 
parities of life everywhere,” he muttered. “ The liar 
and the thief has his place, while he who would aspire 
to be good goes to the wall. Throughout all humanity 
it is the same. Yonder wretch has not one spark of 
remorse for his act. Nay, he will still seek to add 
crime upon crime. Disparity again ! The strong 
physical will backed up by the intellectual, but without 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


193 


one touch of moral power. It seems an impossible 
condition that man shall be just to his fellow. Humph ! 
Jasper or Gaston de Roal, this man is thy pupil : thou, 
the deep and subtle scholar of Europe; thou, who 
didst daringly venture into the boasted secrets of the 
old Chaldeans, and wrest therefrom the wisdom that 
subjugates the senses and holds the will of others in 
thrall. Disciple of the abstruse Jean Bringeret, thou 
hast mastered the art of magic; but thou hast ignored 
that grander art of the mind, which brings religious 
faith and love and hope. Who’s there?” 

“ It is I — Rita,” responded a quiet voice, and turning, 
he beheld the Maori housekeeper. With a slow noise- 
less step the woman crossed the room without a glance 
at him ; in her hand she carried a tray with wine. “I 
have obeyed the master’s behests ; you ordered wine to 
be brought ere I retired to rest,” she said. “I am the 
servant of the master, and await his orders.” 

Fernbrook’s dark face softened wonderfully as he 
looked at the erect form of the old Maori. Without a 
word he approached her, and putting his arms about 
her neck, kissed her passionately. 

Rita drew back, surprise depicted in every line of 
her strongly-marked countenance. Rubbing her eyes, 
as Bosco had done, she looked at him with a long and 
searching gaze. “ Old Rita’s eyes are not good, or the 
evil spirit Te Torva has cast his wicked spell about 
her,” she muttered, w r ith her look fixed on Hilton’s 
face. “ What dark trick is this? Have I slept and 
dreamed a dream of years ? Who has changed the 
smooth lying devil that was here an hour ago into my 
heart’s pride, my gentle son, my young king, my Hil- 
ton, whom I suckled for his dead mother?” 

Over the careworn withered face there comes a 


194 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


pallor as of death, and a trembling of the tall stately 
frame, which shook her like a reed in the wind. 

“Dear Rita, my more than mother, it is I — Hilton 
Fernbrook! — none other, believe me,” lie cries, in ten- 
derest accents. 

“Why, so you are!” she cried, clinging to him with 
a vague terror in her look and voice. “ Sometimes the 
arch-devil Te Torva will change a good man into the 
semblance of himself. For a long time I have seen you 
here beside me, my boy whom I loved ; and you not my 
son, for when I looked at you, the love went from my 
soul. Yesterday I felt I hated you with a lasting 
hate. To-night the love and tenderness of years is 
in my heart. Oh, say, why is this ? Is poor old Rita 
mad?” 

“ Rot mad, Rita. Come, sit down, and take a little 
of this wine,” he said. 

“ Why did you not speak to me with that voice, with 
that look, through all the long moons that have gone ? ” 
she asked, not heeding his words. “ I thought travel 
had made your heart hard and cruel, and I said to 
myself, This is not my boy, but some wicked thing in 
his form and likeness — sent by the powerful Te Torva, 
to punish me for my great love for you.” 

“ Pray sit down ; you are ill,” he said softly. 

“ It is very strange how I should have hated you,” 
she said, still unheeding what he said. “ I have 
watched and followed you, as only a Maori tracks his 
foe. I was near you when — when you betrayed the 
English officer to the rebel Paul Titori in the valley of 
Pukehini. Again I stood by you when you gambled 
away half your fortune in one night at that devil’s pit 
in the city. And again I saw that dreadful ” 

“No more, dear Rita,” he cried, with uplifted hands. 


BEHOLD THE MAN. 


195 


“The past years are but a horrid dream, which we 
must forget. Mail is full of arrogance and vanity, and 
betimes there comes a fierce storm into his life which 
purges it of much that was foolish and frivolous. It 
was not I who betrayed Colonel Chesterton and his 
men ; I am not a gambler ; but because I was proud 
and selfish a devil sprang up here at Fernbrook to 
punish me as well as you, my more than mother.” 

“ Why did the evil spirit take your shape, you who 
have ever been kind and good ? ” she asked, with her 
gaze still riveted on his face. 

“ Do not ask me now ; to-morrow perhaps I will ex- 
plain. Pray take a glass of wine.” 

“ Nay, I want it not, my dear son ; old Rita is tired, 
that is all,” she responded. “’Tis well I have you 
here again beside me. One word more, my son : I 
have some papers and letters which I took from 
the trunk of a man who calls himself Colonel de 
Roal.” 

“De Roal?” 

“Ay, so they name him. My act may seem a 
strange one, but remember I am a Maori, and I felt 
that this man was your foe.” 

“ Have you these papers, Rita?” 

“ They are here, Hilton,” she answered, taking from 
her tamba a small packet, tied with a piece of black 
ribbon, and handing it to him. “ I have tried to under- 
stand these things, but they are all a mystery with 
the rest. Now I will seek peace in sleep. Good- 
night.” 

Hilton Fernbrook led the stately old Maori retainer 
to the door, and pressed his lips to her wrinkled brow 
with reverential love. “ Good-night ! ” he echoed, 
looking after her as she descended the stair. u Good- 


196 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

night ! thou brave, faithful servant.” Closing the door 
noiselessly, he went back to where the book on mad- 
ness still lay on the table, and spreading open the 
packet of papers the nurse had given him, he was soon 
absorbed in their thrilling contents. 


THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 


197 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 

The dark hours of night move slowly but surely 
round the dial of the great clock at Fernbrook. The 
chimes of one o’clock a. m. rouse the solitary occupant 
of the turret chamber from his study of those papers 
given him by old Rita. There is a smile of satisfac- 
tion on his resolute face as he rises and thrusts the 
documents into a secure pocket within his robe. 

“ Egad ! The business on the whole would be most 
farcical if it were not for the tragical, which must 
surely follow as a natural consequence,” he mutters, 
stretching his limbs with a sigh of relief. “ And now 
I must try and put this disordered house into some- 
thing like its wonted groove. How shall I begin ? The 
whole place is a chaos. Victor Mauprat, my friend, 
you have acted your part admirably, but you have 
played the devil with my property. Ah, well ! Life 
is a mystery, and this little episode here at Fernbrook 
is part and parcel of it, I suppose.” The soliloquizer 
pauses a moment, and catches a reflection of himself 
in the mirror opposite. “ 11a ! there you are, Hilton 
Fernbrook, mon ami” cries he, apostrophizing it, — 
“ the real Simon Pure, who must needs confess that he 
had not brains enough to carry him through a holiday 
tour without falling among thieves— and such rogues ! 
He Roal and Mauprat, ye are the princes of your pro- 
fession ! I have been your pigeon — your turtle-dove. 


193 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

All ! ones poulets , the talons of the hawk have grown 
upon the dove. Why these idle musings ? Let me to 
work ! ” 

He descends by a private stairway to a small room 
on the ground floor, and looks around it with a rapid 
survey. “Everything here almost as I left it,” he 
says, seating himself. “ Five years is not much in a 
man’s life, yet five years — nay, five months — may be 
lengthened into as many centuries with many of us. 
Tut! tut! I have made a vow to blot out the past 
from every nook and cranny of my memory. I will 
think, with my faithful nurse, that I have slept and 
dreamed. Hi, presto ! Yonder stands my couch with 
its snowy covering, its chaste and pure surroundings, 
even as when my dear mother used to fold her loving 
arms around me in prayer. Heigho! so be it! Now 
to business. I will write to my old friend Trevor, and 
also to my banker, explain matters, then seek their 
advice.” 

Hilton has not completed his first letter ere he is 
interrupted by the entrance of Bosco. 

“ The master will pardon the Maori for disturbing 
him ? ” says the native, in his quiet way. 

“ Of course, Bosco,” replies the other. “You have 
called to say that Captain Bluff has got over the Grip 
in safety.” 

“Nay,” replied the Maori, “the Pakeha was some- 
what obstinate. He would go no other way but over 
the ledge that leads into the valley of Tilore. He said 
some of his men would be waiting for him at Puke- 
hini Point with a boat.” 

“ So he went that way ? ” 

“ Ay.” 

“ Said he anything at parting, Bosco ? ” 


THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 199 

“No ; only that he trusted to meet the master soon, 
when he would repay a little of the kindness and con- 
sideration shown to him at Fernbrook,” replied the 
Maori. “ See, he gave me these three golden sover- 
eigns for my old shot-gun and pouch. Copi ! the 
Pakeha is generous.” 

Ililton Fernbrook reflected a moment. “ Bosco, is 
your boat in good trim ? ” 

“Boat? The master forgets that it was lent to 
Colonel de Roal and his friend for a fishing excursion, 
three days ago,” replied Bosco. 

“ How stupid of me not to have remembered ! ” said 
Fernbrook, quickly. “ The Colonel has not returned, 
then ? ” 

“ No, they have taken provisions for a week.” 

“ Humph ! Where have they gone fishing, good 
Bosco ? ” 

The Maori hesitated. “ The Pakehas said they in- 
tended going to Kauri Island, but Te Kiti of Whieroa, 
who passed Pukehini Point in his skiff the day before 
yesterday, told me he saw the Colonel and his friends 
with the rebel Maoris at Titore.” 

“ Ah ! I see ; Colonel de Roal is much interested in 
your countrymen, Bosco,” said the young man, after a 
thoughtful pause. “ So we haven’t a boat about the 
place, eh ? ” 

“ Not one except the master’s cutter,” answered the 
Maori. 

“ The cutter will do, Bosco. She is a swift sailer ?” 

“ As swift as the ‘ Toho.’ ” 

“Good! How long will it take you to reach the 
city ? ” 

“ If this breeze holds, I can be in Auckland by the 
evening of to-day,” answered the Maori. 


200 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“ My good fellow, get the boat ready without delay ; 
then return to me, and I will give you some letters I 
want you to deliver.” 

“ I am ready to do the master’s pleasure,” said the 
old man, going out ; but he came back presently and 
stood in the doorway. 

“Well, Bosco! forgotten something?” asked Fern- 
brook, looking up. 

“No, Bosco never forget,” he said in his deep gut- 
tural tones. “ When the master was a rapi and no 
higher than my knee, Rita bade me mark the eagle of 
the Maori on his fair bosom.” 

Fernbrook laughs. “ I remember,” he says, looking 
at the man curiously ; “ I have heard my father relate 
how he horsewhipped you for your pains, my faithful 
friend.” 

“ Will the master show me if the eagle of Te Papa 
is still upon his breast ? ” 

Hilton Fernbrook rises and lays bare his muscular 
chest, on which can be seen the outline of a bird tat- 
tooed. “ See, there is your handiwork, sir,” he rejoins? 
with another laugh. “By my faith, none but a Maori 
would ask a man to show the marks upon Iris person, 
as if forsooth he were no more than a stray bullock, or 
a horse sold out of the pound. Now say, sirrah, why 
you have dared to take such a liberty ? ” 

The voice is smooth and soft, but there is a strange 
gleam in the eyes the while. 

“ I am a Maori of the tribe of Te Papa,” responded 
old Bosco, with something of pride in his tone. “ Rita 
is my kinswoman. Yesterday Rita bade me load 
my gun, go out, and lie in wait for you — then kill 
you ! ” 

“ Wherefore, good Bosco ? ” 


THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 


201 


“ ‘ Because,’ she said, ‘ you were not the master she 
had suckled, but a devil,’ ” he replies. 

“ Humph ! pleasant, rather,” muttered the young 
man, looking askance at the sturdy figure before him. 
“ So you intend to do Rita’s bidding?” he asks. 

“ No ! How could I hurt the master who has been 
a father to the Maori through all these years? Bosco 
has seen the eagle ; Bosco is the master’s slave unto 
death. I have spoken.” 

“ Go down and prepare the cutter. When the let- 
ters are ready, I will send them to you with my in- 
structions.” The Maori went out without a word, and 
closed the door noiselessly. “ Victor Mauprat, you 
have departed none too soon, mon ami” says Hilton .to 
himself. “ None so determined, so ruthlessly cruel to 
their enemies as these Maoris of Te Papa, be they male or 
female. Yet, how faithful and self-sacrificing are they 
to those they love ! Had my faithful henchman de- 
sired to see Te Papa’s eagle on your person, my clever 
Victor, faith, I would not have given the nib of this 
pen for your life ! ” 

He sets himself earnestly to work with his letters, 
and writes like a man who has decided as to their con- 
tents. By the time he has finished, the faint sign of 
dawn begins to appear on the horizon away seaward. 
He sits listlessly watching the dark gray streaks 
changing to lines of brown and pink and golden azure, 
and then a blending of more glorious hues, heralding 
the god of day. Presently there is a noise of feet out- 
side — a knock — and Peter Dusk, the detective from 
Scotland Yard, enters, accompanied by a brace of tall 
fellows from the ranks of the Auckland police. 

“ You have stolen a march on me, sir, ” says Dusk, 
shaking the young man by the hand. “We should 


202 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

have landed here at midnight but for an accident to 
our sail. My lads, this gentleman is Mr. Fernbrook. 
Now get the things out of the lugger, and I’ll join you 
presently with our orders.” 

Ere the retreating foot-sounds of men had died 
away, the detective approached his companion, and 
said : “ You have caged the bird ? Where is he ? ” 

“He! who?” 

“ Victor Mauprat — the escaped felon — the man who 
placed you in a madhouse the other side of the globe ; 
then found his way to your domain here to squander 
your inheritance and wreck your name. Who? — by 
Jove ! ” and Dusk’s red eyes glowed like those of a 
tiger-cat. 

“ My good friend, you are heated with your journey. 
Sit down and take a little wine,” said Hilton Fern- 
brook. 

“Well, I like your cool way of taking things, sir; 
but business is business, you know. Safe bind safe 
find — you know the adage. If the man is here, I’ll 
put the darbies on him at once — with your permis- 
sion.” 

“ Victor Mauprat is not here, if that is whom you 
mean,” said Fernbrook. 

“Not here?” cried the detective, with unutterable 
disgust. “ Have you allowed him to escape ? Why, 
surely, Mr. Fernbrook, you have not been mad enough 
to let the wretch go?” 

“ Truly, my friend, I have,” returned the other, with 
provoking coolness. “ It seems I was mad enough, as 
you term it, to be kept in durance vile, while this man 
revelled here in my stead; but I am hot a policeman, 
remember. That is your role , my good fellow.” 

Dusk looks at him, and begins to scratch his head 


THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 


‘203 


with a perplexed air. I should have thought, after all 
you have suffered through this man, that you would 
have been glad to punish him as he deserves,” says he, 
presently. 

“ Possibly ; but you see I may have a motive in allow- 
ing this man to depart. It is your business to bring 
Mauprat to justice, and I have an opinion the work 
will give you pleasure.” 

“ You’re a queer gentleman altogether,” answers the 
detective. “ However, if the bird has flown, it will be 
better to be after him at once. Now, how and when 
did he go ? ” 

“ Victor Mauprat left here a little before midnight. 
At my suggestion, he disguised himself in that self-same 
costume you kindly lent me to play Captain Bluff, of 
the clipper barque ‘ Sarah Blake,’ in, during our jour- 
ney to the metropolis.” 

There is something in the mere mention of this inci- 
dent which causes the grim Dusk to suddenly roar with 
laughter, spite of his apparent annoyance. 

Fernbrook, not heeding the interruption, continues : 
“ There is evidently a little plot amongst your friends 
De Roal and his confederates. It is evidjent to me that 
they were aware of the danger threatening them, but 
did not absolutely know that it was so near. Three 
days ago the Colonel and his double, Blake, together 
with the Ferret, departed from Fernbrook bag and bag- 
gage.” 

“ Which way ? ” 

“ Oh, by water, of course, and in a good sound fish- 
ing yawl.” 

“ But they are not such fools as to put to sea in such 
a frail vessel?” said Dusk. 

“My good sir, Colonel de Roal is — well, a bad man, 


204 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

if you will, but one of the first strategists of our day. 
I have had ample proof that to cope with him one must 
not trust to follow the same lines as in ordinary cases. 
The Colonel gave out that they were going fishing. I 
know for certain that they have joined the rebel Maoris 
under Paul Titori in Pukehini Valley.” 

“ Whew ! ” whistled the detective, with mouth awry. 
“ That’s their game, eh ? And you let this man, the 
chief of the quartette, quietly depart to join his pals?” 

“ Even so,” said Fernbrook, in his cool way. “ I have 
my way in the management of my own affairs ; you have 
yours. So has every man. Victor Mauprat has been 
gone only a few hours. He took the road by the coast 
leading to Pukehini. If you can capture him, I will 
give you five hundred pounds. But, understand me 
fully, Colonel de Roal is the man I want to stand face 
to face with.” 

“ Why the Colonel, sir? It seems to me the Colonel 
is not the man wanted in this case.” 

“Tut! You are mistaken,” cried Hilton, sternly. 
“ The convict Mauprat, whom I saw for the first time 
last night, may have spent my money, ruined my credit, 
and perchance sullied my good name ; yet, after all, he 
has been but the tool in the hands of a more designing 
and accomplished scoundrel.” 

“Humph! What are your orders in' this matter?” 
asked Dusk, after a pause. 

“ I have none, save that you will refresh yourself 
and extend the same courtesy to your men ; I will not 
hamper you in any way. Act as you think best, and 
rely upon my influence and my purse to aid you.” 

“ Enough ! ” cries the officer, rising and extending his 
hand. “ I will leave you, sir, to try and set this dis- 
ordered property of yours in order, if you can. For 


THE BIRD HAS FLOWN. 


205 


myself, I mean to capture these fellows and bring them 
to book, even if I have to fetch them out of the midst 
of the rebel Maori camp.” 

The morning glides on into noon, and night falls again 
over Fernbrook. Dusk and his men have departed no 
one knows whither ; while the distant sail of Bosco’s 
boat seems but as the wing of a gull. 

The days go slowly by with old Rita. It is true the 
keen wrathful suspicion has left her face, and she moves 
with a lighter step than heretofore, yet the puzzled look 
is still in her eyes when they chance to fall upon the 
person of her young master. 

The fourth day sees the return of Bosco, accom- 
panied by the Hon. Bob Trevor, John Warne the 
banker, and Cecil Payne, Q. C., one of the soundest 
lawyers in the colony. The party are conducted 
straightway to Hilton Fernbrook’s private sitting-room, 
where stands the young man himself, ready to receive 
them ; and here the four gentlemen hold council, which 
lasts for many hours. 


206 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

FENCING. 

The fashionable world of New Zealand were assem- 
bled in Shortland Crescent. War and rumors of war 
made no impression on the upper ten, who congregated 
in the season at the Crescent — the West End of the 
Metropolis of Maoriland. Paul Titori might be at the 
gates of Auckland with his warriors, for anything the 
fashionable world cared. To them the motto, “ Eat, 
drink, and be merry,” was the whole of life. 

The mansion of the Hon. Bob Trevor is all ablaze 
with light. To-night is one of the “At Homes,” and 
the cards which admitted to it bore the magic word 
“ Dancing ” in one corner. 

It was a special night. The leaders of bon-ton had 
heard of Hilton Fernbrook’s strange adventures, and 
were assembled to welcome him back to the social 
ranks. 

The spacious rooms of the great town house are filled 
to overflowing for the occasion, and Lady Blanche is 
playing hostess. Near her stands Victorine Gayland, 
dressed in a silk grenadine, with a dash of vivid crim- 
son about it, a diamond pendant rising and falling upon 
her white neck, and on her shapely arm a diamond ser- 
pent glittering like a circle of living fire. Beyond the 
fair hostess and her friend stands the Maori girl, Te 
Coro ; around her are gathered a circle composed, for 
the most part, of officers of Pye’s Horse, in full regi- 


FENCING. 


207 


mentals. A ruby-colored tamba, whose collar is thickly 
studded with seed-pearls, fits her lithe exquisite figure 
to perfection. Her beauty, dark and magnificent as 
any Spanish Donna, is all the more attractive in con- 
trast to that of the lovely women around her. From 
the shy, modest maiden, the daughter of Te Ranga 
seems to have developed into the cold self-possessed 
woman of the world at a bound. Watching her as she 
converses with these men, one can see that the great 
black eyes note every personage and every object pass- 
ing with minute scrutiny. 

“ Who is that beautiful Maori ? ” asks Colonel Ches- 
terton, a young and distinguished commander of a 
local brigade whose name has been on everybody’s lips 
for some daring act against the rebels at Waitamata 
Pah. 

“ That is the heiress of the old chief, Te Papa, who 
bequeathed the lady and her dowry to his sister, the 
Maori Rita of Fernbrook,” says Captain Hayward, of 
the Waikato Rifles. 

“ What a splendid girl— or woman, I should say — 
Hayward ! She seems to me like a lovely picture of 
one of the old Castilian race, which has taken the lib- 
erty of walking out of its frame.” 

The Captain laughs behind his open palm. “ Take 
care, Colonel ; her ladyship of Oakland is watching you. 
The eyes of love are sharp to detect a rival. Certainly, 
Mademoiselle Te Coro is charming enough to cause 
the Lady Alice some uneasiness, if she could hear your 
praises of her Maori friend.” 

The Lady Alice Morton, of Oakland House, only 
daughter of a millionaire, a lively blonde, not yet 
twenty, is at the other end of the crowded reception- 
room, flirting with a small circle of admirers, amongst 


208 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


whom are young Warne, the yet handsome host, with 
a sprinkling of good-looking young fellows in dark blue 
uniforms. 

“ Who is that fellow leaning against the wall?” asks 
the Colonel again of his aide, fixing his glass to his eye 
at the same time for a tour of inspection. 

“ Oh, do you mean the tall, dark man, talking to the 
old banker ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the hero of Titore; “quiet-looking, 
clean-cut face. He should be somebody.” 

“ My dear Colonel, that is the guest of the evening — 
Fernbrook, of the Barrier Rock.” 

“By Jove! the fellow who was caged in a mad- 
house,” cries the other, pulling at his moustache. “ He 
doesn’t look like a man to be easily taken in that way ! 
What’s the gist of the matter, Hayward ? ” 

“A clever rascal — one De Roal — who made Fern- 
brook’s acquaintance somewhere on the Continent, hap- 
pened to have a relation, or confederate, the very image 
of our friend yonder and about the same age. The 
Frenchman had made himself pretty well master of 
Fernbrook’s affairs while they were travelling together. 
Somewhere on the Nile, Fernbrook has an attack of 
sunstroke, and De Roal, who had evidently well con- 
ceived his scheme, has the patient conveyed to a pri- 
vate lunatic asylum. Poor Fernbrook once out of the 
way, the confederate assumes the name of Hilton Fern- 
brook, betakes himself to New Zealand, and at once 
takes possession of the Barrier Rock Estate.” 

“ The whole thing is as sensational as one of Mrs. 
Wood’s novels,” says the Colonel. 

“ It is true. I had the details of the matter from my 
friend Lyndhurst,” responds Hayward. 

“ And the impostor — who is he ? ” 


FENCING. 


209 


“ An escaped convict ; Victor Mauprat by name.” 

“ Also a Frenchman ? ” 

“I believe so. The subtle rogue has made ducks 
and drakes of Fernbrook’s money, I hear. Ah, Lynd- 
hurst, my dear fellow, how are you?” cried Hayward, 
breaking off the narration abruptly, to shake hands with 
the new-comer. “ Where is Mrs. Lyndhurst? I am 
dying to be introduced. Colonel, allow me to present 
to you the coming literary Nestor of the Antipodes.” 

“ Glad to know you personally, Lyndhurst, though 
I have made your acquaintance before,” answers the 
military magnate, with an affable smile. “ I’m not 
much of a bookworm — no time for that, you know; but 
I’ve read your last work with a considerable amount of 
pleasure. Ah ! Glenvale, how do, dear boy ? What a 
devil of a crush ! ” 

The small talk becomes general and incessant, and 
upon all manner of subjects. There is a perfect babel 
of tongues, in which queer sentences and abrupt ex- 
clamations burst on the ear in confused and unintelli- 
gible jargon. 

Alton Lyndhurst moves away towards a group of 
ladies, amongst whom is his beautiful wife. This is 
her first public appearance since their marriage, three 
months ago. The novelist and his bride have spent a 
happy honeymoon at the Mount, and have returned to 
begin the hard stern business of life in a small but 
pretty villa overlooking the Waitamata. The first to 
wish the newly-married pair congratulations is Mrs. 
Gayland. All traces of the fierce passion that marked 
her last meeting with her old love have vanished from 
the charming attractive face, which now smiles in 
witching fondness on the woman who has supplanted 
her. 


14 


210 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Masks and faces make up the tout ensemble of the 
crowd, but I fear the masks are in the majority. If 
one gifted with the power of Asmodeus could for a 
brief moment lift the subtle covering of the mind and 
heart from such a congregation, how astonished he 
would be! What pain and doubt and despair, hid 
away beneath the gentle word, the soft smile! 

Amos Ward, Mayor of Auckland, stands solitary, 
watching but one figure in the vast assembly. He has 
been standing in the same place, with his eyes fixed on 
the same woman, for the last half-hour. There are so 
many notables present that his worship is altogether 
nobody on the occasion. If there be power of attrac- 
tion in one person looking intently at another, then 
must Victorine Gayland have felt that power, and have 
beheld him who watched her with such absorbed at- 
tention. Alas ! the charming Queen of Society saw 
nothing beyond the person of Maud Lyndhurst. Even 
in a crowd a man cannot remain in one position long 
without being observed in turn. 

Designing mammas, who would have welcomed the 
rich plebeian as a son-in-law, shrug their bare shoul- 
ders and smile behind their fans as they note him. 

“ The man is a born fool to be so enthralled by a 
conceited puss who cares no more for him than the 
man in the moon,” they whisper. “Ah! there’s Ward 
mooning over the fair widow again,” says Captain Fop- 
top to Gus Playfair, his friend. By-and-by the crowd 
extend over the roomy mansion, some to play, others 
to drink and talk, many to dance — for, in spite of the 
high-caste gathering, dancing is evidently not beneath 
the dignity of the elite. 

If Amos Ward had been invited to occupy that post 
by the window and do nothing else, he could not have 


FENCING. 


211 


performed the duty with more patient zeal. Beautiful 
women and handsome men whirled here and there, and 
flitted by in the soft mazes of waltz and polka. Yet 
he stirred not. Marriageable girls would have dis- 
lodged him hours ago, but they knew his secret — their 
labor would have been in vain. 

Twelve o’clock — midnight, and the young widow is 
wafted near him, with Colonel Chesterton for her 
partner. Almost by his side they stop, with an excla- 
mation from the lady. “ I’ve torn my dress, Colonel,” 
said Victorine, petulantly. 

“Eh? What?” panted the gallant son of Mars, 
putting his glass up with a jerk. “ What’s to be done ? ” 

“I must get a pin,” she responds, with a smile. 
“ Have you one, Colonel Chesterton ? ” 

“No ; but I’ll get you one,” he replies. 

“ Thank you ! ” 

The officer goes. Victorine looks up, and meets the 
gaze of Amos Ward. “Mr. Ward,” she cries, “when 
did you arrive ? Why do you not dance ? ” 

He looked at the slim figure a moment in silence. 
His eyes were fine, and he could venture to perform 
the experiment without giving offence. “Alas ! I have 
no dress to tear,” he responds, still looking at her. 

Victorine let her flowers fall, and turned the brace- 
let on her arm, and so they stood for a time in perfect 
silence, until, looking up, she met his fixed gaze with 
her lustrous eyes. 

“You have not answered my question,” she says, 
with a faint smile on her delicate lips. 

“ I was just wondering whether you really wished 
me to answer it,” he said coolly. “ I mean truthfully, 
of course. I know that any commonplace excuse would 
do ; but do you want the truth ? ” 


212 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ Oh, please, let me have the truth, by all means, 
she cries, with an arch lifting of her eyelids. 

“Well,” he says slowly, “I do not dance, because 
there is only one lady in the room I care to dance with, 
and I am quite aware that I stand no chance of secur- 
ing her for a partner.” 

She did not pretend to be ignorant of what he meant. 
Yictorine Gayland was too clever, too superb a creature 
for small affectations. 

“You mean me?” 

“ I mean you,” he responds, inclining his head. 

“ And how did you know that you could not dance 
with me, O most potent seer ? ” she retorts, forced a 
little nearer to him by the onrush of a dragoon and his 
partner. 

“ By experience,” he replies. Then adds hastily : 
“ Take care, or you will be crushed to death.” 

And he drew aside to make room for her in a little 
recess, which, when there was no dancing about, 
sheltered a marble statuette. So they stood close 
together — so close, that the faint fragrance of some 
perfume in her hair, or on her face, rose and surrounded 
him, making his heart beat as assuredly nothing else in 
all the wide world could make it beat. 

“ By experience,” he resumed, just glancing down at 
her, and then speaking with his eyes fixed on the 
opposite wall, so that any watcher could scarcely have 
noticed that he had been speaking at all. “ Last night 
at Colborne’s, although I lost my dinner to be amongst 
the first-comers, I waited for you, and found that your 
card was full— you filled it, I presume, on the stair ? 
The Thursday previous, at Madame Yipont’s, you were 
too tired to dance with me. Not caring to woo a 
refusal and another disappointment to-night, here I 


FENCING. 


213 


stand, like a modern Diogenes, and watch the world 
dancing, while I amuse myself by eating my heart out 
with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness ! ” 

“You must be enjoying yourself,” she answers in a 
low tone, into which she manages to infuse a subtle 
intonation, which makes for him, as it had made for 
others, a strange and mystic attraction. 

“ I enjoy myself after my own fashion,” he says, with 
smiling irony. “ You dance so exquisitely — as you do 
every thing else — that it is a keen enjoyment to see you 
waltzing with other men, and to know that there is no 
chance for me.” 

The gleaming serpent upon her arm flashed shafts 
of rose, green, and azure blue, as she took up the ele- 
gant ball programme and looked down it musingly. 

“ Here is one dance vacant — that which you covet so 
bitterly. You do not deserve it, because — you have — 
not asl&d for it.” 

“ The wretch who is found dead on the pavement for 
want of a meal doesn’t deserve to live because he has 
not asked Sir Thomas Morton to take him home to 
dinner. Well ! ” 

“ Ah ! I have been quite mistaken. I have no dance 
disengaged. My card is full— quite full,” she says in 
the same low voice. * 

“Of course; I knew that,” he exclaimed, with a 
laugh. “Better let me go in search of the gallant 
Colonel ! ” 


214 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER XX. 

VICTORINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 

“ Better let me find the gallant Colonel and bring 
him back to you,” he went on. “ Then I will go home 
and bless the fate that has ordained me to be a specta- 
tor of other people’s enjoyments, and have none of my 
own.” 

Ilis irony brings a proud flush to Victorine Gayland’s 
pale face ; but she smiles, and answers quietly : “ What 
a pity it is that I could not keep my card empty for 
you all night! It would have been the very acme of 
good breeding to meet every gentleman who asked me 
to dance with the reply, ‘ Pardon me, sir, I am waiting 
for his Worship the Mayor of Auckland to select the 
first waltz, &c.’ ” 

He looks down at her, admiration for her beauty 
shining fiercely in his eyes. “Well,” he says, “will 
you or will you not ? ” 

“ Ah ! my money or my life ! ” she retorts, in fine 
mockery of his tone ; “ you are bitter and unjust, your 
Worship, and do not deserve consideration. Let me 
see : you shall put your pencil through young Dash- 
wood’s name, and write your own in its place. As an 
old friend, he will pardon the liberty we take with his 
name.” * 

His broad strong face lights up, and for the first time 
a dash of color spreads over it as he offers her his 
arm. “You are right,” he whispers in her ear; “ I am 


VICTORINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 


215 


bitter and angry, I know, but I have a plea for it all. 
Let me ask you to put yourself in my place ” 

“ If your place is where you have been standing all 
the evening, I had rather not, thanks ! ” It was her 
way to adopt this style of matchless fence, when Vic- 
torine Gaylapd wished to disarm her adversary with- 
out absolutely giving the coup-de-grace. 

“Will you ever be serious with me?” he asked, 
pleadingly. “ Am I always to be a target for your 
banter ?” 

She laughs pleasantly. “ Your Worship,” she cries, 
mockingly, “ life is one huge stage for folly, and what 
you please to term banter is the only garb in which its 
votaries clothe themselves. Your wisest sages say : 
‘ ’Tis better to smile than to frown.’ To be serious is 
to pull the button from the foil of your friendly an- 
tagonist, and, while your arm but marks the spot where 
the point has been upon his body, his weapon pierces 
the heart ! ” 

“ I know nothing of fencing,” he answers, gravely. 

“ Become an actor, and you will soon learn the use 
of foils,” she says, with another laugh that has a sound 
as of the rippling of some cool rivulet. 

“ And join the corps at the Bandoline ? ” he adds. 

“Yo; that is not necessary, Mr. Ward. There are 
far cleverer players off the mimic stage than on it. 
To be an actor, one needs only to study mankind as 
we meet them day by day. The stage is but a poor 
grotesque cartoon of its great archetype, the world — 
that is all ! ” 

“ Is it ? Probably it may be as you say, but in my 
case the world has been real enough with me. I 
shall never be an actor, inasmuch as I know that 
you ” 


i>lG THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK 

With a quick raising of her bright eyes, she uses her 
foil again. “I know that all the rest of the people are 
dancing, and we are standing still,” she interrupts. 
“ Really, I do not think you were half as anxious as 
you pretended to be.” 

He takes her hand in his, long and^slender and 
supple in its sheath of soft kid, and they mingle in 
one of Pizar’s dreamy waltzes. There are no better 
dancers in the room amongst her sex than Victorine 
Gayland; and Amos Ward, though he is a self-made 
man, and somewhat large in person, is fairly in unison 
and sympathy with time and music, which alone make 
proper dancing. The flush on his cheeks grows 
deeper and his eyes glow as he bends over her, but 
her face is cold and passionless as the marble bust 
of Pallas. The dance over, he leads her out of the 
crowd. 

“There is Dashwood, the man you have robbed,” 
she says, pointing with her fan towards a tall youth 
in uniform. “ I see him approach, to cover me with 
shame and confusion. Pray stand between me and his 
just wrath.” 

“ I will fling the puppy out of the window, if you 
like,” he says, absently. 

“ Poor boy ! Deprive him of his life as well as his 
dance? ” she replies, smiling. “ And now you will go 
and make yourself pleasant to some one, please. There 
is a pretty little thing in turquoise blue ; let me in- 
troduce you.” 

“ I shall go home now,” he answers, in his clear low 
voice, as calmly as if he had declined a glass of wine. 
“ I have had my one dance, and am very grateful to 
you. I can guess how much it has cost you to humor 
me, for I have seen more than one pair of eyes look- 


V1CT0RINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 


217 


ing your way reproachfully. I will say good-night, 
and take you to your next partner. Who is it?” 
And he takes the card hanging by a silken cord to her 
waist. 

“ You are certainly not very gallant, and I can see 
yon are in a hurry to he rid of me. Why should you 
go now ? ” 

“ Because I cannot endure to see you play the Lady 
Beautiful with these others.” And his cold gaze swept 
the room with hitter disdain. 

“ You are unjust, and decidedly unpleasant !” she 
remarks, with her thin lips arched in scorn. 

“Perhaps; it seems to me an utter impossibility to 
be pleasant when I am by your side,” he says. “I feel 
that the airy fool’s talk that comes so easy when I am 
in the company of other women, falters and falls dead 
when I draw near you. There is only one thing I can 
ever say to you — only one speech my lips can frame 
with truth and honor.” 

The fair lovely face beneath his ardent gaze grows 
suddenly hard, and almost stern in every line, while 
the eyes glow with a strange unearthly brilliancy. “ I 
regret you have neglected the art of fence,” she an- 
swers. “A gentleman in these days is but half- 
educated who has left it out of his accomplishments. 
Come, give me your arm, out of the reach of the eyes 
and ears around us.” 

Close by, there is a wide alcove of ferns and tall 
shrubs, with a fountain in the midst, whose cooling 
spray, spouting upward, falls with a thousand rays 
of parti-colored light beneath. Amos Ward and his 
companion move into the arbor. Here they can see all 
that is going on, but they are out of earshot. “ The 
one speech that has been upon my tongue and in my 


$18 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

heart for years you will not let me speak,” he says 
presently. 

She looks up at him now with not a trace of emotion 
in her proud face. “From Adam downward, men 
have always had some absurd idea,” she responds 
slowly. “ Pray, what is this impossible crotchet which 
disturbs you ? ” 

He inclines his head with the lips drawn tightly to- 
gether. “ Ah ! I feel that which you term a crotchet 
is an utter impossibility,” he answers presently, but in 
an altered tone. “ I have read somewhere that love is 
only another name for selfishness.” 

“ Love ! ” she added mockingly. “ What has love to 
do with us? ” 

“ Everything — with one of us, at least,” he cried pas- 
sionately. “ Yictorine, I love you better than I have 
ever loved anything upon this earth.” 

“ Pooh, sir ! Is this the one little speech you were 
forbidden to say ? ” she responded in cold, sarcastic 
tones. “ You forget how many times you have uttered 
it in the past.” 

“Yictorine, do not drive me altogether mad,” he 
pleaded. 

“ I should be sorry to do so, sir ; but if you raise 
your voice like that, I must leave you.” 

“ Not yet,” he cried. “ If I ever pleaded for that 
which is more dear to me than my worthless life, I 
must do it now.” 

She laid her hand upon his arm, and stopped the 
torrent of his words. “ Amos Ward, you have been a 
true friend — almost a brother to me,” she said softly, 
and looking at him with her magnetic eyes. “For 
over a year I have seen the silent growth of this in- 
fatuation in you, and I have prepared myself for this mo- 


VICTORINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 


219 


ment. Nay, be silent and listen. I am not callous or 
heartless, but I can never be to you other than a friend 
and sister. You are a man of the world, and can under- 
stand when one like myself takes off her daily mask 
to speak the simple truth.” 

He stood staring at her without uttering a word, the 
perspiration standing on his brow in glistening beads. 
Voices approaching at length roused him. 

“So, this is the end of it!” he muttered, with some- 
thing like a groan of pain, that seemed to find an in- 
stant echo in the heart of the woman at his side. 

She took his strong hand in her soft gloved palms. 
“ I am truly sorry to see you suffer. If my poor exist- 
ence could atone, and bring you back to what you 
were before you knew me, I would freely lay it down 
this moment.” 

He looked at her a moment ; then, yielding to some 
uncontrollable emotion, drew her soft form to his breast 
and implanted a kiss on her smooth white brow. 

“ God help us both ! ” he said. “ I see it all now — 
all, all, my poor child! From henceforth I will be 
your brother in earnest, to watch over you— to help 
you — for I feel my love has that in it which will con- 
quer all the baser dross which encrusts worldly affec- 
tion. To-morrow, or next day, or next week, I shall 
have found means to ease the nameless pain here at 
my heart.” 

“ And we shall be friends as of old ? ” 

“ Ay, closer than of old, my girl. And now I will 
say good-night ! ” 

There is a short firm grip of the delicate hand, 
which almost crushes the slender bones together, and 
Amos Ward has vanished out of the maze and whirl of 
noted men and beautiful women— out under the stars. 


220 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Phil Brock, valet and confidential man to his Wor- 
ship, notes the sudden exit of his master, and flies 
after him down the silent street. 

“ What the devil does your honor mane by going 
home widout the carriage ? ” cries Phil, in his inelegant 
way, running breathlessly after his master. 

Amos Ward turns and sees his faithful factotum: 
“ Oh, I had forgotten all about the trap, Phil.” 

“In coorse; ye’ll be forgetting all about yerself 
nixt,” grumbled Phil. 

“Go back and tell Thompson to take the carriage 
home ; I shall not want it. I am going to walk.” 

“ Arrah ! walk is it ? An’ this time o’ night ? Indade, 
ye’ll do no such thing. Hear that now!” cried Phil. 
“It will be laid up wid influenza ye’ll be, an’ the 
devil of a foine time I’ll be having of it nursing you.” 

The Mayor of Auckland burst out laughing. 

“Troth, it’s a fine thing to be laughing at a poor 
spalpeen whose ould legs is aching all over waiting for 
ye,” cried Brock. “ Not a bite or sup has gone down 
my throttle this blessed night. Bad cess to the whole 
box and dice of them, I say.” 

“ Go back and ride home with Thompson, Phil. At 
home you can help yourself.” 

“ Och, the devil a toe I’ll go back,” retorted the old 
fellow, hotly. “ It’s dressing me up like a flunkey 
ye’ll be doing nixt, an’ sticking me on a boord behind, 
like a stuffed pay cock. I’ll not go back. Mind, now ! ” 

“ Oh, very well,” replied the Mayor, good-humoredly. 
“ If you won’t, well, I must, that’s all. The horses 
can’t stay out all night.” 

“Just hear him!” cried Phil, appealing to the moon. 
“ Here’s an ungrateful omadhaun for ye ! Thinking 
more of a poor brute baste than of the unfortunate 


VICTORINE GAYLAND'S AGONY. 221 

craythur that nursed him when he was a snivelling 
bit of a devil — no bigger than my arrm ! ” 

“ Be quiet, Phil.” 

“ I will not ; ye were a snivelling devil, an’ what’s 
more, the ugliest baby man ever saw, or woman either, 
for the matter of that. Shure, you were the color of a 
brick.” 

The Mayor of Auckland burst out laughing, spite 
of his annoyance. “You have an excellent memory, 
Phil,” he said, looking at his henchman in perplexity. 

“ Have I, now? Well, the devil thank me for that 
same. It’s a good score of reckonin’ I have agin’ some 
people. Now go on ; take your walk in pace. But, 
mind now, if you’re murthered on the way, don’t be 
coming home an’ blaming me, that’s all. An’ now I’ll 
just tell that great stupid spalpeen of a coachman 
what I think of him,” muttered Phil Brock, wheeling 
round and retracing his steps the way he had come. 

Amos Ward goes his way through the silent night. 
That fair picture of Victorine Gayland thrust out all 
baser matter from his brain. He yet feels the dainty 
perfume floating about him, feels the soft strange eyes 
reflected on his innermost heart. It is something to 
have felt her breath on his hair — to have held for one 
brief second of time the yielding graceful form in his 
arms. 

The last guest has departed. The lights are out in 
the large ball-room. Silence reigns around. Victorine 
Gayland sits alone in that one little room in her magni- 
ficent house at Parnell, which is to her a sort of study, 
and far from the noise and clatter of the street. An 
hour ago she was interpreting Beethoven to an admir- 
ing circle; now she is drooping and pale, with that 


222 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

ivory whiteness in her face which is only seen on the 
faces of those who are hand-in-hand with death. 
There has come to her within the hour a gradual but 
appalling change. The small mouth is set hard with 
firm resolve ; the magnificent eyes are dull and weary, 
the white arms listless like pieces of carved marble in 
her dark dressing gown. The maid enters to brush 
her mistress’s hair. “I shan’t want you to-night, 
Sheldon,” she says, without looking up, “ I am tired ; 
see that no one disturbs me.” 

The maid goes out without a word, and closes the 
door noiselessly. 

Presently the little silver clock on the mantel chimes 
two. “ Tempus fugit ,” mutters Mrs. Gayland, rising 
with almost a stagger in her gait, and a perceptible 
shudder which shakes her slender frame. “ Must I do 
it, after all ? Must I die ? It is the only thought of 
the unhappy. We fly to death for relief and oblivion. 
Ah, me ! alas ! ” 

There is an exquisite piece of furniture, in the shape 
of a French writing-desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, 
near the window, which she unlocks with a small gold 
key, fastened to her girdle. Within it lie costly gems 
and trinkets in careless profusion. From a recess hid 
away in one corner of the cabinet, which opens with 
a spring, she takes out a letter, already addressed, 
together with a tiny phial containing about a table- 
spoonful of a dark thick fluid. She places these on the 
table, and stands with her hands clasped before her. 

“ And I had prepared this for my rival,” she con- 
tinues, looking at the phial with another shudder, — 
“ for the pure and innocent wife — his wife ! Faugh ! 
That was a cowardly thought. If I cannot have his 
love, I will have death — for there is no remembrance — 


VICTORINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 


223 


there. Who — who shall say that Victorine Hargrave 
was a murderess? Nay, it were better a thousand 
times to be a suicide. Heaven forgive me ! ” 

There was no mistaking the fierce temporary in- 
sanity that had taken possession of the unfortunate 
woman. In everything about, even to the writing of 
the sealed letter on the table, which bore the address 
of her old lover, Alton Lyndhurst, there were traces of 
a calm, deliberate plan for self-destruction. 

The idea had not come to her suddenly. It was the 
growth of many weeks, in which morbid fancy had held 
sway within her. Her first thought was to steal from 
her home, disguised in humble garb, and cast herself 
into the broad waters of the Waitamata. They would 
not miss her for hours, perchance days, and in that 
time the sea would have hid her forever. In the evil 
spirit of her madness she had sallied forth on her dread 
errand. Silently she had passed through the entrance- 
hall, down the flight of steps, and into the park beyond. 
She walked as quickly as she could, but her disguise 
was ill-fitting and clumsy. She became exhausted, and 
sat down to rest. The night was beautiful, and as 
she sat; there came to her a dream of the old cottage on 
the cliff. She Saw it in all its charming beauty of site 
and garden, where the waves rang out their artillery 
at the base. She seemed to see the setting sun over 
the noble bay, with ships passing to and fro upon its 
bosom, while overhead a sea of great crimson clouds 
rolled, lurid with gold, whose light lay upon the grand 
old trees and the grass. 

She sees all this again to-night. Nay, more ! She 
sees the tall gaunt form of a man walking the long 
pier, whereby she is balked in her fell purpose. 

She cannot live with her broken heart. If by going 


224 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


forth and lying on the dewy ground she could yield up 
her life, it would be well with her. She would lie 
down with a smile upon her lips. 

Not of to-day nor yesterday, this terrible thought of 
self-destruction : with the bells that had rung on Alton 
Lyndhurst’s wedding morning the thought had come 
like a lurking devil, only biding his time to enter. 
This subtle principle of evil was there while she fenced 
and foiled, and sang and charmed — heightening her 
resplendent beauty that attracted the gilded moths 
who dreamed not of the fearful thing peeping out of 
every smile and dimple. 

She takes up the phial coolly, calmly, as one would 
lift a glass of rare old wine, and holds it for a moment 
between her and the light. She knows something of 
drugs. She knows that each drop in that frail china 
jar will freeze and chill the blood in her veins — nay, 
will clutch her heart with an iron grip, and still its 
beating forever. 

As the unhappy lady stands contemplating her doom, 
there comes a gentle tap at the door, a tap so faint and 
timid that Victorine Gayland does not hear it till it is 
repeated in a louder tone. Like some midnight thief 
caught red-handed with his spoil, there comes a strange 
look into her eyes, and over her whole countenance. 
An instant, and it is gone. “ Who’s there ? ” she cries, 
and a soft voice replies — 

“It is I — only I — Te Coro.” 

With a stifled cry that has in it more of despair than 
anger, Victorine admits her friend, and sinks down 
before her on the floor with a great sob. “ Te Coro, 
how you frightened me ! ” 

Te Coro does not heed the white lie, but glances 
quickly from the table to the crouching form at her feet, 


VICTORINE GAYLAND’S AGONY. 


225 


“ You are nob well to-niglit,” she says softly, bending 
down and drawing the hot throbbing head towards her. 
“Ah ! it is cruel to work you so much — to make you 
play and sing and talk until you are weary and tired 
unto death! Say it is not poor Te Coro who has 
frightened you — you, who are so fearless and brave ! ” 

No answer save another sob, which cannot be re- 
pressed, and a nestling of the fair head as if it would 
hide itself in the Maori’s bosom. 

Te Coro puts back the luxuriant hair from the 
troubled brow, and kissing it, continues : “ I have been 
three weeks your guest — three happy, pleasant weeks 
for the Maori girl. Peace has fallen upon my eyes 
and upon my senses every night I have been beneath 
your roof ; and I have slept, as the dead only sleep, in 
serene and utter forgetfulness. To-night I could not 
close my eyes. Sleep would not come to me, try as 
best I could. While I sat and pondered on the cause 
of my wakefulness, lo ! there came a vision of this 
chamber — so minute in every particular, that I was 
certain I was standing on this spot rather than sitting 
in my own room. I saw you there by the table, dearest, 
with your face like the face of one who is dying, but is 
not dead. Oh, it was terrible ! I saw your pale lips 
move, but I could not hear what you said. Once you 
stretched forth your arms in mute despair, and then 
sank down as if to hide yourself within the bowels of 
the senseless ground. When you rose up, the agony I 
read in your look was fearful. Ah, me ! I beheld you 
at the cabinet, from whose secret recesses you took a 
letter — that one there on the table— and with it some- 
thing glittering as the deadly adder’s fangs. Nay, let 
your troubled head rest here awhile,” she continues. 
“ I am but a Maori, yet the Maori loves her friend. 
*5 


226 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


Give me your hand. Ah ! what is this ? It is the tempt- 
ing toi-toi — poison. Unclose your fingers. So my 
vision was not all a fable! ” 

Quick as a juggler in some trick that defies the sight, 
the Maori girl, with a backward sweep of her hand, 
dashed the phial against the iron grate, where it was 
shattered into a hundred fragments. 

It was a strange picture this — enacted in the deep 
stillness of the summer night. Here the proud, brilliant 
beauty, hitherto invincible, bowed down to the dust in 
all the abandonment of her pain and shame, pensively 
silent ; there the Maori, no less beautiful, no less proud 
— pleading and battling with the spirit of evil which 
would not depart without a tussle from the heart and 
soul of Victorine Gayland. 

“ I know your secret, dearest ; I have known it long,” 
said Te Coro after a time, in which the sullen anguish 
of the sufferer had given place to a passionate fit of 
tears that shook her as the wind and waves play with 
a ship at sea. “ You must suffer — as you have suffered, 
but your whole life need not be wrecked because of this 
heartache — this sense of desolation. It may be years 
before you forget, but you will forget. You will live 
to become a noble, useful woman — all the more noble 
because of your suffering.” 

Morning dawns — dawns fair and lovely. The sun 
glints in upon the two women and the appointments 
of the luxurious apartment. 

Victorine Gayland is stretched upon a sofa,' with 
closed eyes, but she is moaning as if in great agony. 
Te Coro steals across the room on tip-toe and meets 
the maid at the door. 

“ Sheldon,” she says, “ tell Marks to saddle Firefly, and 
bid him haste to Dr. Townely. Your mistress is ill,” # 


THE BLOCK PAH. 


227 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE BLOCK PAH. 

Detective Dusk had set himself no easy task in 
tracking Victor Mauprat and his confederates. From 
the outset difficulties beset him which made progress 
slow if sure. In the whirl and tumult of civilized life, 
the man-hunter would have hunted down his prey 
with the sure and swift scent of a bloodhound ; but 
here, in the very thick of Nature’s wildest scenes, the 
conditions were altered. 

Beyond Omera his two companions were taken ill, 
and had to be sent back to the city. At Havelock, 
however, Dusk managed to secure the services of a 
friendly Maori, by name Taperia, otherwise the 
“Wolf.” This man had done the State some service 
in several capacities. He had been interpreter, spy, a 
delegate from the Government to the Rebels, etc. The 
fellow could speak English remarkably well, and had 
a thorough knowledge of the country. At first the 
detective was suspicious of his 'companion, but the 
latter soon convinced Dusk that he was trustworthy. 

“It is to my interest to serve the stronger party 
faithfully, because they pay me well, and they will 
surely win in the end.” 

Excellent reasons, and quite satisfactory to the man- 
hunter, who looked upon the Maori, as a clever speci- 
men of the race. The Wolf was very useful. When 
Dusk became despondent and quite at fault in gather- 


22 $ THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

ing np a clue, his companion came to the rescue, 
scented the lost trail of the Pakehas, and followed it 
with the tenacity of the Scotland Yard runner himself. 
With one less qualified than Taper ia the work could 
not have been accomplished at all. 

Up the Fire Mountain, across Lake Kiteara, over the 
Ilunna Ranges, and down into the wide valley of 
Pukehini, he followed the Pakehas, step by step, with 
that unerring faculty which only a New Zealander can 
attain. From the Ilunna Ranges the track was not 
that of one or two persons only, but of a small army. 

One night, when they had lit a fire and were enjoy- 
ing their supper, the Wolf picked up a small shell, 
with a hole in it, lying at his feet. 

“ See here,” he said. “ The warriors of Te Papa 
have passed this way. If the Pakehas have gone to 
join Paul Titori and his men, then they are not far 
away, for where Te Papa’s warriors are there is the 
Rebel Chief.” 

“ You are not afraid, Taperia?” 

“ No, Paul Titori has nothing against me ; but with 
you it is different. He will surely have your life, if he 
finds you.” 

“ I must take my chance of that with all the rest,” 
responds Peter Dusk, filling his pipe. 

The next day, at noon or thereabouts, our two 
worthies emerge out of the thick forest range by way 
of Tonga’s Peak. This peak is nothing more than a 
lofty ridge, steep and bare of vegetation, but from its 
summit can be seen the bold and irregular landscape 
beneath, for several miles round. Away, beyond the 
swamps and thick patches of bushland, Taurauga 
nestles cosily on the very edge of the Bay of Plenty. 

To the right is the Rebel village, Judea, joining the 


THE BLOCK PAH. 


229 


Coast wall, which latter looms up to the sight like a 
gigantic fort. The eyes of Peter Dusk rest upon this 
spot with absorbed attention. Right on the apex of 
the sea wall, which here presents a flat surface, the 
Rebels have eracted a pah, the native name for fortress. 

Encircling the outer rim, even where the solid wall 
of rock looks sheer below into the sea, there have been 
erected gabions of sand-bags, five feet high, with 
numerous loopholes, to sight an approaching enemy. 
Within the enclosed space are rings of posts, inter- 
laced with a hard, tough creeper, called supple-jack, 
whose octopus-like limbs entangle and retard like a 
spider’s web. Everywhere within the stronghold rifle- 
pits cut cross- wise are to be seen. 

It has taken the allies of Paul Titori three years to 
build the “ Block Pah ” ; and when it is finished, the 
Maori Rebel Leader has taken possession of it with six 
thousand men, and has defied the Pakeha to dislodge 
him from it. 

Peter Dusk, looking down upon the crowd of dusky 
forms moving here and there in the place like a swarm 
of huge ants, knows little or nothing of Paul Titori or 
his warriors. All he knows, or cares to know, is the 
-one fact — Victor Mauprat, the Ferret, Colonel de Roal, 
and the giant Blake, have been traced to the spot. If 
they have joined the Rebel Chieftain — and he has re- 
liable information that such is the case — then they are 
thus caged, and the only question for him to decide 
is how he is going to capture his men without being 
captured in turn. 

The position is a strong one, there is no doubt on 
that head ; on one side looms the coast-line, steep and 
slippery, with no foothold even for a mountain goat. 
To the left, and far out, is a deep swamp, overgrown 


i>30 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOlt 


with tall coarse rushes, where a body of men could 
not force a passage without being entirely lost. 

There is only one w r ay to the place, and that is by 
way of the hapu, or village, and here it is but a narrow 
ledge of rock little more than a dozen feet wide. Once 
over this, however, there is plenty of room right under 
the breastwork, where a body of resolute men may 
re-form and make their attempt. 

If this man from Scotland Yard could, by any pos- 
sible means, have known the series of events taking 
place within the area of his vision, as he stood upon 
Tonga’s Peak, then he would have seen, away beyond 
the hapu at Judea, a dark line of armed men moving 
in the direction of the Block Pah. With keener eyes 
than his companion, the Wolf saw them, and, pointing 
with his finger, said : “ Look ! those are Pakehas going 
to storm Paul Titori out of his den.” 

And the Maori was right. Colonel Chesterton, the 
military genius of the hour in Yew Zealand, was 
marching with eighteen hundred men — volunteers all 
— to attack the Eebel Chief in his stronghold. Paul 
Titori and Colonel Chesterton had encountered each 
other often, ere the former was driven out of the Wai- 
kato. And now the gallant Colonel was about to meet 
his enemy again. 

From the hill-top the detective immediately under- 
stood the scene beneath his ken. The commotion 
inside the pah, and the steady column moving as one 
man to the assault, were as a chess-board situated at 
his feet, wherein every individual movement of the 
besiegers and the besieged was plainly discernible. 

“ Te haJci e hina ,” cries the Maori, “we are just in 
time to see the fun.” Peter Dusk looks at his com- 
panion, and, without reply, seats himself on a ledge of 


THE BLOCK PAH. 


231 


rock with his rifle between his knees, and lights his 
pipe. Not one man in a million- has such a picture 
before him as this scene of the valley of Taurauga. 

Meanwhile the volunteers have sighted the pah, and 
here they halt while a small body of officers go for- 
ward to reconnoitre the Maori position. In half an 
hour two guns, the whole artillery of the attacking 
force, take up a position, and soon reduce the hapu to 
a heap of ruins. What few warriors there are retire 
into the pah, from which issue yells of defiance. 

Moving forward quickly, Colonel Chesterton divides 
his force into two lines. One takes up a position on a 
range to the right of the pah, accompanied by the guns, 
which open fire on the front face of the stronghold. 
Here there is a strong trellis of stout saplings inter- 
laced with the supple-jack. It is the only weak point 
about the fort, but it has a wonderful power of resist- 
ance. Again and again, with increasing precision, the 
gunners hit the pliant wall of fence full in front ; the 
tremendous force of the shot bearing down the whole 
breastwork. But so flexible and tenacious are the 
materials of which it is composed, that instantly the 
missile rebounds, and the whole mass springs back to 
its original position. At every shot there is a roar of 
defiance, followed by a sharp volley of musketry from 
the Rebels. The gunners stick to their work, but the 
guns get hot and have to be abandoned for a time. 

At this point the line of reserve is brought to the 
front, and formed into close column of companies. 
They deploy four deep down the hill, as if to cross the 
swamp at the base of the pah. The Rebels, believing 
that they are about to be assaulted from this point, 
leave their rifle-pits and crowd the ramparts of the 
Northern Wall. The manoeuvre is only a ruse, but it 


232 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


is successful. Suddenly, at the blast of a bugle, the 
whole body turn and race for the pathway of the pah, 
gain it, and are on the broad ledge, hewing down an 
opening in the fa9ade, ere the astonished Maoris can 
return to oppose them. 

Hurrah! They have gained an entrance — but the 
Rebels return to this point in overwhelming numbers, 
and there begins a dogged hand-to-hand butchery, that 
has in it the very elements of hell and nought of mercy. 

The first rush of the Maoris is repulsed, and they 
are driven back upon a body of Te Papa’s men. These 
are led by Paul Titori, and fight coolly and bravely. 
The deadly weapons of the volunteers make gaps in 
their ranks, but they are filled up again, and roll on- 
ward like an avalanche, bearing the hated Pakeha 
slowly but steadily backward through the rents in the 
line of defence. Colonel Chesterton, standing by the 
guns, draws his sword. “ My men,” he says, turning 
to the second column, who are impatient to join the 
melee, “ I am determined to have the Block Pah. All 
of you who may be of my opinion, follow me!” 

There is a cheer and a rush, and those of the first 
party who are .striving against great odds take heart 
as they are joined by their comrades. 

Peter Dusk, on the hill-top, sits and smokes his 
pipe. lie views the fierce and bloody contest with 
strained muscles and staring eyeballs. He sees that 
superb ring, of tall, sable warriors reel and totter, and 
fall around their leader, the Rebel Chief. He sees the 
black seething mass, beaten but still fighting — forced 
rearward, to that high black wall forming the coastline. 
Here the scattered groups concentrate into a close, 
solid square, for what appears a last united effort to 
dislodge the foe. To the eyes of the two solitary 


THE BLOCK PAH. 


233 


Spectators on the hill, the Rebels must certainly perish 
where they stand, or be borne over the abyss into the 
sea. 

But even while they look, lo ! a huge mass of the 
rock swings suddenly backward, forming a gaping 
passage, through which the remnant of the Maori 
column precipitate themselves en masse. Before the 
stormers can get near, the rock rolls back again with 
a noise like thunder, and they are baffled of their prey, 
after all. 

Some call loudly for the guns, but the artillery can- 
not be brought along that narrow pathway. The 
Block Pah is not, however, the strongest of these 
Maori redoubts. 

Peter Dusk knocks the ashes out of his pipe, and 
rises. 

“ Pm going to the pah, Taperia,” he says. “ Is there 
a near cut to it ? ” 

“ Yes,” answers the Wolf; “ come with me.” 


V «!« 


234 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

BEARDING THE LION. 

No sight so inglorious and sad as a battle-field when 
the conflict is over. The interior of the conquered 
pah presented a ghastly picture — dead and dying 
heaped together, amongst the debris of broken weapons. 
Pursuit of the retreating enemy was not thought of 
under the circumstances. Indeed, Colonel Chesterton 
could find no clue to the phenomenon of the rock 
which had suddenly opened its ponderous jaws before 
him, and swallowed up the Rebels to a man. Days 
afterwards, the secret was found out, but it was then 
too late to give chase. 

For years “ the Moving Rock of Pukina ” had been 
known to the Maoris. A vast mass of solid stone, 
which formed part of the higher wall on the coast- 
line, had become by some freak of Nature bedded on 
a pivot below. A child, knowing the secret, could 
have swung the stupendous boulder round with a 
touch of its hand. Without the secret, no known 
power of leverage could have moved it. The designer 
of the Block Pah, taking advantage of the “ Moving 
Rock,” excavated a broad terrace of steps beneath its 
opening, which led to the shore beneath. 

Before the attack on the stronghold, every precau- 
tion had been taken by the Rebel Chief for a safe 
retreat through this passage in case of defeat, 


BEARDING THE LION. 


235 


When Dusk and his companion reached the pah, 
everything was in a state of confusion. 

“Who are you, sir?” asked the commander of the 
force, eyeing the detective suspiciously. 

“ I am travelling in the interests of the Auckland 
Times” replied he, boldly, and with great readiness. 
“ We had information that the pah was to be attacked, 
and I with a guide, the Maori here, was despatched at 
once for the scene.” 

“ Hem ! How or from whom came the information 
anent my movements ? ” asked the Colonel. 

“ I cannot say.” 

“ Which way did you come — by the Fire Mount- 
ain ? ” 

“Yes. We had reached Tonga’s Peak when you 
began the attack.” 

“ That was an excellent point from which to witness 
an engagement of this sort,” said Colonel Chesterton. 
“ Kindly favor me with your name?” 

The detective paused a moment ere he answered, 
“ My name is Dusk— Peter Dusk.” 

“Representative of the Times f” 

“ Exactly, Colonel Chesterton.” 

“Very well ; I shall be glad to furnish you with any 
details for your report. Be good enough to report 
yourself to my aide-de-camp, Captain Hayward, who 
will provide you with a stool at the mess this evening. 
Au revoir ! ” 

The Colonel walked away to give orders for the care 
of the wounded, to collect the spare arms, and to bury 
the dead. 

Dusk took the Wolf aside. “Look here, I mean to 
follow Titori, if you have the courage to lead the 
way,” 


‘236 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“ It is madness,” replied the Maori. “ The Rebels, 
enraged at their defeat, will kill you at sight.” 

“ Have no fear on my account, my good Taperia,” 
replied Dusk, coolly. “ Place me in sight of the Rebel 
Chief’s camp, then leave me. That is all I ask.” 

“You are mad!” said the courteous Wolf. “How 
can I know where Titori has gone ? He may be fall- 
ing back on Taurauga, to join his battered warriors 
with the band of Te Rauga of Taranaki.” 

“ Look here, the Rebels are not far away,” said Dusk, 
quietly. “ Titori is much stronger than Colonel Ches- 
terton, and he will have another fight for it. That’s 
my opinion. I have a sovereign here, which I shall 
not require. Just say where you think the Maoris 
have retreated to, and the money is yours.” 

The Wolfs dark eyes glistened greedily at the sight 
of the coin held out to him. “I think Paul Titori will 
go to the pah at Judea,” he replied, after a pause. 

“And where is Judea, Taperia?” 

“ A Maori settlement on the line of coast, about ten 
miles distant.” 

“ Do you know a way to this place — I mean an easy 
w<ay — whereby we could reach it before morning?” 
asked Dusk. 

“ I think so, but ” 

“ That’ll do,” interrupted the other. « Take the 
money and pay attention to what I say. When it is 
dark, we will start for Judea. I will put on volunteer 
uniform.” 

“How?” questioned Wolf. 

“Very easy, my friend; are there not plenty to 
select from among the slain ? This poor fellow lying 
here is just my height and build. You see, he has an 
extra suit strapped to his back. What harm to take 


BEARDING THE LION. 237 

it? He’ll never require his uniform again in this 
world.” 

The Wolf shuddered. “It is terrible to rob the 
dead,” said he. 

“ Perhaps ; but needs must when the devil drives. 
I have everything staked on the issue of this business, 
and to draw back means ruin to me. NTo, the work, I 
can see, is perilous in the extreme, but I mean to try 
it, and win if I can.” 

The Maori looked at his companion with something 
like admiration in his bloodshot eyes. “ A madman 
would scarcely venture into the clutches of Titori at 
this juncture ; but I suppose you know your own affairs 
best. I am quite ready to show you the way to Judea, 
but I will not accompany you within the liapu. Is 
that understood?” 

“ Quite,” returned the detective. “ Now, what will 
you do ? Go back to town, Taperia ? ” 

“ I will cross over to Taurauga and await your fate,” 
answered the Wolf. 

Darkness fell apace. The wounded had been 
gathered together and their wants attended to, so far 
as it was possible under the conditions. Fatigue par- 
ties had been told off to bury the dead, but this proved 
to be a work of no small magnitude, considering that 
friend and foe had to be provided with this last accom- 
modation. Within the pah a huge bonfire had been 
made which lighted the men while performing their 
ghastly work. 

Some there were, seated -in a circle, partaking dinner, 
for the Rebels had left an ample stock of dried fish and 
potatoes behind them. In the midst of these Taperia 
was a guest. 

Only two or three of the officers assembled at the 


238 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


mess, and these were compelled to snatch a hasty meal, 
and hurry off to their urgent duties. 

Peter Dusk ate his dinner quietly, but with a 
thoughtful face. It had been previously arranged 
that he should meet the Wolf at the ruined hapu with- 
out the pah, as soon as the meal was over. 

Although there was little to fear from a night attack 
by the Rebels, Colonel Chesterton had gathered his 
forces within the stronghold, and had posted a chain 
of sentries round it. The difficulty was to get through 
the outpost. But this was overcome in a manner quite 
unexpected. Several men had been killed at the hapu 
outside the fort, and a party was sent out to bury them. 
Dusk, who had found time to change his costume, 
formed up with the party in the semi-darkness, and 
marched out in their ranks. 

It had been previously arranged between the detec- 
tive and Wolf that each should seek his own way out 
of the pah, and that a giant kauri pine, standing away 
on the right of the ruined Maori settlement, should be 
the rendezvous. While the burying party were busy 
with their work, Dusk slipped quietly away, and easily 
found the tree, where he sat down to await the coming 
of the Maori. 

Peter Dusk was hardy of frame, and had a will of 
iron to back it ; but the day had been a long one, at 
the end of many long days before it, and he began to 
feel tired and drowsy. It appeared to him a long time, 
waiting and watching alone, and in the darkness. Of 
course, he had waited and watched before, but under 
different conditions. A man never feels alone in the 
heart of London. Here, in the wild grandeur of these 
looming rocks, which appeared to take gigantic shapes, 
and nod and gibber at him, he felt a kind of awe 


BEARDING THE LION. 239 

which made him shut his eyes and shiver, he knew 
not why. 

In the midst of his reflections, there came at length 
upon his ears a strange noise, like the call of the “ toho,” 
the night bird of Maoriland. He listened attentively, 
and the cry was repeated, but much nearer than before. 
Presently, a dark form presented itself almost at his 
side. 

“ Who’s that ? Speak!” 

« It is I— the Wolf.” 

“ What the deuce kept you so long ! ” cried Dusk. 

“ Hi ti , moi tcira. A man can’t assume the shape of 
the devil at all times. I had no desire to be shot, so I 
waited for an opportunity to drop down into the swamp, 
where there is no watch set, and here I am.” 

“ What is the time ? ” 

“Midnight or thereabouts; hut I say, my friend, 
where are your arms — your belt and pouch ? ” 

Dusk laughed a low chuckling laugh. “ I believe I 
am running risk sufficient already, without venturing 
into the Rebel camp armed to the teeth,” said he. 
“ My plan is to go Titori empty-handed, tell him I am a 
deserter from the volunteers, and ask him to let me 
serve under him.” 

“ Will he believe you ? ” 

“ I do not know, but I will try, my good Taperia. 
The worst that can befall me overtakes one or other of 
us every day of our lives. Come, let us move. Which 
is the route ? ” 

“Follow, and make no noise,” answered the other, 
striking back again through the old dilapidated hapu. 
“We shall have to pass near the chain of sentries, on 
the south side of the pah, and from thence to the coast- 
line.” 


240 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Not a word was spoken as the two men threaded 
their way, cautiously but at a swift pace, down a long 
ravine, which divided the path from the Tonga Valley. 

For over an hour they toiled on — now over huge 
boulders, now through soft, swampy peat, which so 
exhausted them that when the sandy shore of the coast 
was reached they were fain to throw themselves 
down full length, to rest and breathe awhile. 

“ Got any tobaccy ? ” said Taperia. 

“ Plenty,” replied Dusk ; “ but will it be safe to strike 
a light here ? ” 

“Why not? We are a long way from the pah, 
now.” 

When the Maori had lit his short black cutty, they 
started on again up the coast-line, which led them 
round inlets and small bays, and along a stretch of 
smooth sand, as straight and level as a macadamized 
road. Here again, farther on, rose the steep cliffs of 
the coast- wall, as at the Block Pah. 

It was breaking day now, and the Wolf, pointing 
with his finger, said : “ Yonder lies Judea. Half a mile 
from the high peak to the left is situated the settle- 
ment. I will accompany you to the foot of the cliff, but 
no farther. I have spoken.” 

Under the shade of the overhanging ledge of which 
the Maori had spoken, the two men sat down. Briefly 
the Wolf directed his companion how to proceed : 
“Wait until it is broad day,” he said, in conclusion; 
“ then ascend the range boldly ; the Maori scouts may 
have a shot at you, but they are not very good marks- 
men at a distance. Good luck ! and I hope you will 
come safe out of it.” 

“ I have little fear on that head,” replied Dusk ; 
“ however, one never knows what may happen. Look ! 


BEARDING THE LION. 


241 


here is a small packet, of papers. They are addressed 
to Mr. Hilton Fernbrook of the Barrier Rock; I want 
you to post these for me when you reach Taurauga.” 

“It shall be done,” cried the Wolf, taking the packet 
and hiding it in his tamba. “ Anything else I can do 
for you ? ” 

“Ho, except this — my last coin!” replied Dusk, 
laughing and handing it to the Maori. “ I guess I 
shan’t want money in the camp at Judea. Now, good- 
bye ! Don’t forget the packet.” 

Peter Dusk stood and watched the retreating form 
of his faithful friend, until a bend of the coast hid 
him from his view. Then, from a secret pocket, hid 
away down below the knee of his trousers, he drew 
forth the smallest of revolvers. The miniature wea- 
pon had six chambers, every one of which was war- 
ranted to kill. He examined the toy carefully, ere he 
put it again in its hiding-place. 

Ascending the cliff, as directed by the Maori, Dusk 
came to a deep gorge cut through the hill-top. It was 
quite dry, and there was a well-worn footpath leading 
upwards. It took the intrepid officer some time to 
reach the summit; but this once reached, Judea and 
the surrounding country lay at his feet like a map. 
To the right he saw a large valley under cultivation, 
shut in by ridges, hills, and mountains, rising one 
above the other in the misty distance, with the blue 
sky for a background. Away to the left stood the 
settlement, the whares, or huts, clustered together in ten 
or a dozen rows, like diggers’ tents. Much nearer to 
where he stood loomed a rock, like a sugar-loaf with the 
top cut off, and upon this stood the pah of Judea — 
stronger, larger, and far more difficult to attack than 
the Block Pah of Tonga Valley. 

16 


242 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

As Dusk stood and gazed about him, a musket-ball 
whizzed in close proximity to his head, and before he 
had time to notice from whence the report which 
followed came, he was seized from behind and dragged 
to the ground. 

“ Te him Teke Pakeha ,” cried a gruff voice in his 
ear. Dusk help up the thumb of his left hand, a sign 
that he did not understand Maori. There was a mur- 
mur of voices at this; and a call to some one on the 
ridge below, who quickly clambered up. lie was a 
Pakeha, tall and big. At tjie first sound of his voice, 
Dusk turned to look at him, and beheld Drummond 
Blake. 

“ Who the devil are you, and how did you get here ?” 
he said, waving the Maoris back. 

Dusk had his story ready, and told it briefly. He 
had been unfortunate, got tipsy while on duty, had 
been tried and sentenced to be flogged — escaped — and 
wished to fight with the Maoris if they would receive 
him as a comrade. 

There was quite a ring of warriors around him now, 
who seemed to spring up out of the ground, or from the 
rocks around. 

“ I can do nothing,” said Blake, gruffly. “ You will 
have to go before Paul Titori.” 


COLONEL DE ROAL’S THEORY. 


243 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

COLONEL DE ROAL’S THEORY. 

Peter Dusk was led away by his captors in complete 
silence. There was a narrow, well-worn pathway 
down into a deep gorge, whose luxuriant foliage almost 
shut out the light of day, into which they led him. 
Halting for a moment here, the Maoris searched his 
pockets and took the contents into their keeping. 
The prisoner was then blindfolded and led onward over 
a very rough road in an upward direction. 

In half an hour or thereabouts, but which had ap- 
peared to the mock deserter a whole revolution of the 
clock, the escort came to a halt, and the bandage was 
removed from the prisoner’s eyes. Peter Dusk, looking 
about him, found himself within a large circle, walled 
in by a triple bank of earthworks thrown up to a 
height of six or seven feet, with loopholes some 
eight inches to a foot wide, and extending round the 
whole of the breastwork. Around on every side were 
parallel lines between the earthworks, excavated 
out of the solid rock and forming a Communication 
from the outer to the inner line of defence, while innu- 
merable rifle-pits crossed and recrossed each other 
round the length and breadth of the enclosure. Two 
big guns of heavy calibre were run out upon wide 
platforms overlooking the gorge seaward, and their 
embrasures formed a bomb-proof shelter to the warriors 
who manned them. 


244 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Not at once did the prisoner note all these things, 
for as soon as the bandage was removed from his eyes 
he was led away through one of the passages, and down 
a flight of rugged stairs, into a kind of square chamber 
hewn out of the cliff. This place, which was lighted 
by two Maori whale-oil lamps, revealed three persons 
seated at a table, and two others reclining on a couch 
of skins and rugs at the upper end of the chamber. 
Two of the personages at the table were Maoris— Paul 
Titori, the Rebel Leader himself, and his aide Honti, 
Chief of the Waitauri. Titori had a bloody cloth 
about his temples, which imparted to his face a ghastly 
look. Between the giant Honti and Titori sat a 
Pakelia, with his arm encased in a rude sling. On his 
head was a cap, with flaps made from the skin of the 
New Zealand beaver ; a tight-fitting coat, which had 
once been a toga, lined with soft mica flax, was 
buttoned up to his chin and fastened at the middle with 
a belt containing a revolver. One glance at this man 
revealed to the watchful eyes of the sham deserter — 
Colonel de Roal. 

The fourth of the group rose from his recumbent 
position at the entrance of Dusk and his guard. For 
one moment, it took all the strength of his self-will to 
repress a cry of surprise from the detective, as his 
gaze fell on the features of this man. Had it not been 
that he was fully prepared to find a strong resemblance 
between Victor Mauprat, the escaped convict, and the 
Heir of Fernbrook — nay, more than a striking likeness, 
a very facsimile — it is just possible that he, the veteran, 
cool-headed, daring fox, might have betrayed himself 
and forfeited his commission and his life on the spot. 
As it was — and he had schooled himself for a surprise 
' — it was some moments ere Dusk could believe but that 


COLONEL DE ROAL’S THEORY. 


245 


he was looking at his companion and employer, Ililton 
Fernbrook. 

Man of the world, and practical to the paring of a 
nail, Dusk had, like the majority of his class, no belief 
in anything except that which could be clearly demon- 
strated on the spot. The adage setting forth that “ No 
two men are alike ” he had held as a truism which until 
now had been verified in his experience. But here was 
the exception to the rule. Just the same man — height, 
form, age, complexion, gesture, features, everything, 
even to the most minute particular — that he, Dusk, 
had seen in the man at Drury Lane Theatre — the 
escapee from the Del Madilino, Venice. For a second, 
a strange thought crossed the brain of the detective. 
What, after all, if he had been outwitted by the man 
who called himself Hilton Fernbrook ? Might this 
so-called Fernbrook, the man he had journeyed with 
from England, be the man wanted — the other only a 
myth ? 

While this idea held possession of Dusk, the man 
rose from his couch and seated himself at the table. 
He folded his arms and indulged the prisoner with a 
long stare. 

“ Whom have we here ? ” he asked after a pause. 

A tall muscular Maori stood forward and replied in 
good English, “We caught this Pakeha prowling about 
the cliff at daybreak.” 

The four men at the table looked at the prisoner, 
and then held a brief whispered conference. 

^ Was he armed?” asked Colonel de Roal. 

“ No ; he had nothing but these,” and as he spoke 
the Maori advanced to the table, and deposited thereon 
a knife, some tobacco, three or four copper coins, and 
a piece of linen in the form of a bandage. 


246 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


“Let the warriors wait outside, Tonga,” said the 
Rebel Chieftain, waving the escort away. 

As soon as they were gone, Titori lifted his blood- 
stained face to the prisoner, and said : “ Now, why 
did the Pakeha come into the hands of his enemies ? 
Speak” 

The tale was brief enough, and Dusk had it ready 
rehearsed. He was on duty the night before the battle 
at the Block Pah. It was a chilly night, and raining. 
A comrade gave him some rum, and he became drowsy 
and fell asleep on his post. He was found out, and 
sentenced to be flogged. Death was preferable to the 
caW-nine tails, so he had run the gauntlet of the guard 
and pickets, and escaped. 

“ Why did you come here — to seek death ? ” inquired 
de Roal. 

“No; I knew not where my wandering steps led 
me,” replied Dusk. “ My chief desire was to get as far 
away as possible from the camp of Captain Chesterton 
and his dreadful punishment.” 

“ Humph ! ” and De Roal rested his wounded limb in 
an easy position on the table, and looked hard at the 
solid face of the detective. ‘ 

“ What is your name ? ” said he. 

“Peter Dusk.” 

Victor Mauprat raised his head quickly, and con- 
tracted his brows like a man who is tryiug to remember. 

“ Dusk ? Queer name,” answered the Colonel, re- 
flecting. “ Are you an Englishman ? ” 

“Yes, that is, my parents were,” said the prisoner, 
correcting himself. 

“ Ah, born in the colony ? ” 

“Yes,” after a slight pause. 

“ What is your corps ? ” 


COLONEL DE ROAL’S THEORY. 


247 


“South Auckland Defence Force,” replied Dusk. 

“And that is their uniform you are wearing?” 

“ It is.” 

“ What are their arms ? ” 

“ Rifle and bayonet.” 

“Will you say how many men Colonel Chesterton 
had with him at the attack of the pah? ” 

“ Two thousand, all told,” replied Dusk, at haphaz- 
ard. 

“Are there any reinforcements on the way from 
Taurauga ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

There was ominous silence for a while, then Titori 
asked : “ How many Maori warriors are wounded at 
the pah ? ” 

“ About forty.” 

“ And what has been done with them? ” 

“ They are placed with the wounded Pakehas, under 
care of the doctor,” anwered Dusk, readily. 

“ One word more, my friend,” said the Colonel, smil- 
ing and clapping his hands together. At the sum- 
mons, Tonga and his escort appeared. “ Take away 
the Pakeha and guard him well,” be said. 

Mauprat yawned indolently. “ The poor devil is no 
doubt a deserter. I vote we give him a weapon and 
make him fight for us.” 

“ But a man who will desert his comrades will also 
betray them,”' put in the Maori leader, quickly. “ If 
we trust this traitor Pakeha, what guarantee have we 
that he will not turn traitor a second time, when 
opportunity offers? After all, he may be a spy from 
Colonel Chesterton.” 

“Humph! Titori is a renowned chief, and what he 
says may be true,” responded Victor Mauprat. “ Let 


248 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

the Pakeha have short shrift — give him a bullet for 
breakfast. It will be the surest way out of the diffi- 
culty.” 

“Nay, a Pakeha is best fitted to judge a Pakeha,” 
said Titori, rising and beckoning to his lieutenant, 
Honti. “ I am satisfied to leave this haki (rogue) to 
the wisdom of my friends. Titori is a warrior, not a 
judge nor an executioner. I have spoken.” Saying 
which he went out, followed by the herculean Honti. 

De Roal and his companion sat silent for some time, 
each busied with a new current of reflections, caused 
by the appearance of the sham deserter in their midst. 
The force of circumstances had driven these renegades 
into their present position. With the rightful Heir of 
Fernbrook returned to New Zealand, they saw the 
game was up — that everything would be discovered, 
and all parts of the vast machinery of the law set in 
motion to capture them. 

De Roal was not a man to sit down quietly in de- 
spair when danger menaced him. On the contrary, the 
greater the peril pending, the higher rose that self- 
satisfied impudence and will-power within him to 
meet it at all points. At a glance he saw that the 
only chance of escape for himself and his comrades, 
lay in making common cause with the Rebel Maoris. 
Once identified with the Maori chieftains and their 
hosts, they could defy the law. With the aid of 
Te Papa’s daughter, who in her heart of hearts fully 
believed that the usurper Mauprat was what he pre- 
tended to be, and at his solicitation, Te Coro used all 
her influence to bring about the desired friendship be- 
tween these Pakehas and Paul Titori, which appeal was 
successful. De Roal, with Drummond Blake and the 
Ferret, joined the Rebels at Wiparia, and in the san- 


240 


COLONEL DE ROAL'S THEORY. 

guinary engagement which followed some days after at 
Te Muna, between Titori and the force under Major Den- 
ton, the three white men gave ample proof of their sin- 
cerity for the side they had espoused. Paul Titori, 
who shared the opinion of Te Coro, that Victor Mauprat 
was the bona fide Fernbrook, wondered why he re- 
mained absent from their ranks. It was on his behalf 
that the chieftain had accepted service from the others. 
Through the clairvoyant Maori girl, the Colonel saw 
what would happen, and used all his persuasive powers 
to induce Mauprat to leave the Rock, but in vain. The 
convict remained to fight out the battle to the bitter 
end, as we have seen. 

The two men sat silent until Mauprat, lifting his 
head and looking full at the ci-devant Colonel, broke 
the silence : “ What is your opinion of this fellow, mon 
pere ? ” 

De Roal stroked his grizzly moustache. “ My son,” 
said he, “ an old French writer has set forth a text 
which has been learned by many a clever man since it 
was written. This is it ; ‘ Suspect what seems im- 
probable, to be true; that which is probable, to be 
false.’ We will apply the maxim to the prisoner. At 
daybreak this man is caught prowling round the cliff 
yonder. He is in uniform, but has nothing about him 
in the way of a weapon of defence, not even so much 
as a shot or pouch belt. He tells us that he was under 
the sentence of a court-martial for being asleep on sen- 
try duty, and he deserted, dreading the punishment to 
follow. This is all most probable ; I have known men 
who would rather brave certain destruction than suffer 
the degradation of the lash, and certainly this fellow 
has the look of a man of that stamp. I say that the 
probabilities are that our prisoner is what he says he 


250 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROON. 

is ; but, falling back on the French adage, I do not be- 
lieve it.” 

Mauprat nodded, but did not speak. 

“The improbabilities take shape in this way,” con- 
tinued De Roal. “ Throughout the whole human race 
— black, white, or red — two or three leading charac- 
teristics are indexed upon the face, but it is only by the 
initiated that such traits can be deciphered aright. 
Mark me ; this man has eyes that would not wink upon 
his post. Did you mark with what a keen inquisitive 
look he took in the whole bearings of this chamber and 
its occupants ? Not a nook, nor an article, to the most 
infinitesimal measurement, escaped his cool, calculat- 
ing vision. Bah! Your ordinary fellow would have 
had no eyes, no thought but of self, under the circum- 
stances. Men with such a bold space between the eyes, 
with such a massive jaw, and long, obstinate, firm-set 
lips, are not easily tempted to drink while on duty. 
My opinion is, our friend could not be turned from his 
duty — not by the possibility of the lash, or death it- 
self!” 

Victor Mauprat uttered a low chuckle. “ These are 
improbabilities, mon • pere” 

“ Nothing more, my son,” he cried, moving his 
wounded arm into an easier position. “Man’s reason 
becomes sharpened as danger gathers about him. 
Every thought of the brain centres upon any given 
point with that subtle endeavor to sift and analyze, so 
that even improbabilities are cited for the chance of 
discovering a glimmer of the truth.” 

“ Theories ! — nothing more, De Roal.” 

“ Cher ami” responded the other, with a peculiar 
smile, “ theory is the parent of discovery. It is said 
that Fouche spent the best part of his youth watching 


COLONEL DE ROAL’S THEORY. 


251 


the antics of insects beneath the lens of a powerful 
mircoscope. His great theory of the by-ways of man- 
kind was inaugurated by this study. It is improbable 
that our friend yonder is an Englishman, for he said he 
was born in the colony; yet the boots he is wearing 
were never made in Hew Zealand. Ho, nor were they 
served out to him as part of his kit. Hicholson, of 
London, measured the feet for the boots. I know the 
make all the world over. Besides, your volunteer has 
his hair cut short, and sports a moustache; this man 
is shorn like a priest, and has a head on him like that 
of a poet out at elbows.” 

“ Sacre bleu/ Who the devil is the man?” cried 
Mauprat, starting to his feet. 

“Hay, my son; sit down. I mean to test these 
improbabilities of mine e’er the sun dips behind the 
Tonga Peak. Si vis pacem , para helium .” 


252 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

POOR TE CORO. 

The Auckland Times is a purely Conservative organ 
and its chief delight is to chronicle the doings of the 
Upper Ten. Under the heading of “Distinguished 
Visitors,” it devotes a column and a half to the arrival 
of Prince di Roumaine and his lovely daughter, the 
Lady Violante, together with their suite. In a purely 
Radical community (the Times notwithstanding), it is 
a red-letter day to have a real live Prince amongst 
them. Moreover, the interest in Prince di Roumaine 
and his belongings is considerably augmented by a full 
and particular account of that romance of love at 
Venice between the fair Violante and young Warne, the 
banker’s heir, occupying something like two columns 
more in the same journal. The clubs — or rather the 
youthful members thereof — are dying for an introduc- 
tion to the charming bride-elect, whilst some of the 
elders, self-made men with money, strive and vie with 
each other for the honor of presentation to “ His High- 
ness.” 

Lady Blanche Trevor, who has taken the beautiful 
Italian under her special care, is charmed with the 
simplicity and sweetness of her charge. 

The days go by very pleasantly for both father and 
daughter, in the new land at the Antipodes. The for- 
mer wonders within himself at the stupendous growth 
of the young giant. Here he sees men completely freed 


POOR TE CORO. 


253 


from the fetters that hamper and retard older and 
more civilized peoples, men with the thews and sinews 
and will to transform, with the wand of a Prospero, a 
wilderness into a mighty nation. 

The tide of war has rolled backward, and left Society 
free to pursue its balls, its parties, and its pleasures at 
will. For Violante there is but one endless round of 
that butterfly existence which the votaries of Fashion 
call gayety ; but although she is the belle and the petted 
darling of the most select set in New Zealand, their 
adulation does not spoil the innate gentleness of her 
disposition, or mar the kindliness of her nature or the 
purity of her mind. 

Prince di Roumaine, prince though he be, has kept 
his word with the plebeian'* lover. Pie has brought his 
child twelve thouasnd miles to give her in marriage to 
one whom he believes will make her happy. 

It is a grand wedding : no gaudy show to please the 
eyes of the vulgar here, but a quiet select gathering 
where each personage present is a somebody — each 
lady as beautiful and accomplished as the bride herself. 
The world goes on much the same when the bride and 
bridegroom emerge into it as one — only it seems a new 
world to them, and filled with brighter shapes than 
are seen by those whose first romance of love has gone 
for evermore. 

The Italian patrician goes back again to his ances- 
tral halls by the sunny shores of the Adriatic, and 
Yiolante begins to lead a life of usefulness and love. 

At the Barrier Rock the wheel of life moves its round 
of dull monotony, one fine day the image of its fellow. 
Every city mail brings invitations from the fashionable 
world to Hilton Fernbrook, but the Master of the Rock 
has no time for idleness and frivolity. His estate is 


254 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

on the threshold of bankruptcy, and he must work to 
retrieve his losses. “ It is a fight with Fate,” lie says, 
with a laugh, “ and I mean to cheat the jade.” 

His strange story has been a nine-days’ wonder, and 
then has given place to some other wonder, as all 
things must in this bustling sphere. Friends have 
offered their congratulations in scores, and a few of 
them practical help ; yet neither good wishes nor the 
ready sympathy of amicable neighbors was half as 
sweet to him as the shy look of welcome from the 
haughty Blanche Trevor. To him there was a whole- 
souled interest in her every look and word. 

“ The usurper has fled, and left you an empty coffer 
as a memento of his cleverness,” she said. 

“ Oh, I care not, so long as he did not rob me of your 
love ! ” And my lady sighs and blushes like a school- 
girl, under the glance of his eloquent, pleading eyes. 

To Rita the wheel revolves as was its wont when her 
young master came home for his first holiday. The 
watchful, suspicious look has vanished from her face 
now, and she moves about less cat-like. The old house- 
keeper cannot comprehend how one man can so closely 
resemble another as to defy detection, though Hilton 
has tried to impress the fact upon her a hundred times. 
The incredulous Maori goes her way muttering, “How 
can it be ? Who shall stand in the young Eaglet’s place 
and deceive me? No one can be in two places at the 
same time — unless he is aided by the dread fiend Te 
Torva. Ah, my master ! I am glad to look at your face 
again, now the devil has gone.” 

Te Coro heard the story of Hilton Fernbrook’s return 
with infinite amazement. To her it came like revela- 
tion of some deed perpetrated under the influence of 
a powerful opiate. What had she done? — given her 


POOR TE CORO. 


255 


■virgin love to a felon and a murderer ! Alas ! it was 
so. Whatever extenuatiorr there might be for her 
under the circumstances, the degradation and shame 
were none the less for her. She — the daughter of New 
Zealand’s proudest chieftain, to be so entrapped and 
dishonored ! Bah ! Te Papa’s blood was in her veins 
and his courage in her heart. Though she was but a 
woman and a Maori, she vowed silently to find this 
man, and kill him, without the faintest shadow of turn- 
ing from her fell purpose. To resolve was to act as 
speedily with Te Coro, but with caution, as became the 
instincts of her race. She remembered how this man 
had wished to espouse the Maori cause against the 
Government ; how to that end she had brought about 
a meeting between him and the Rebel Titori. Wher- 
ever was the Rebel encampment, there she would find 
the pretender. That same evening she began her task. 

Fernbrook was in the library after tea, looking over 
his file of newspapers received from Auckland. A tap 
at the door. “ Come in.” 

“ It is only I,” says Te Coro, peeping through the 
doorway. 

“ Truant ! When did you return ? ” cries the young 
man, with a friendly nod and a smile. “ Take a seat, 
and tell me what good fortune has wafted you back 
again to this dull abode ? ” 

“ There now, my good relative, dear old Rita, would 
have me believe that this same “ dull abode,” as you 
term it, has been an Eden during my absence,” replies 
the girl, with a merry laugh. “ By the way, Mrs. Gay- 
land has been very ill.” 

“ Yes ; I saw mention of it in the Times. The lady 
has had excellent nursing.” 

“ I thank you. Is that a compliment ? ” 


256 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ I trust you do not think me so ungallant as to 
mean it in any other sense, my dear Te Coro,” he says, 
at the same time handing her a chair. 

“ Oh, it only seems yesterday, as it were, since you 
and I used to romp below on yonder green,” she says, 
seating herself, and looking steadfastly at him. 
“ Now, it is my dear Te Coro — and Miss Te Coro— and 
what not.” 

The young man laughs. “Well,” he says, “I only 
hope the usurper was as temperate in his conversation, 
my Puni PekoT 

A sudden frown wrinkles the girl’s face, and makes 
its beauty almost hideous. “ Bah ! Do not mention 
the monster,” she says, in a low tone. “ Why did you 
suffer him to depart ? Had I been in your place, I 
would have shot the villain dead on the spot.” 

“ Humph ! Have you seen the papers ? The Times 
reports that my worthy representative and his friends 
are with Paul Titori at the Block Pah, on the Wairoa ! ” 

“ I have not seen the papers,” she adds, with a 
smile. 

“ Of, course, I forgot ; ladies are not interested in 
these things.” 

“ Pardon me, I am concerned in everything connected 
with my poor misguided race,” she answers quietly. 

“ It is to be regretted that Maori and Pakeha cannot 
live in peace,” he replies. “Colonel Chesterton has 
crossed over into Taurauga with three regiments to 
attack Titori in his stronghold at Judea. Perchance a 
stray bullet from a volunteer may end the career of 
Victor Mauprat, the convict, and his confederates.” 

Te Coro did not reply. Taking out a book from her 
embroidered tamba, she began to write therein. Hilton 
Fernbrook watched her with some curiosity. 


POOR TE CORO. 


257 


“ I am only jotting clown the name of the usurper,” 
she says, in reply to his look of interrogation. “ I have 
never heard it till this moment. And now, I must say 
good-bye.” 

“Are you going away again, Te Coro?” 

“ Yes, I am sorry to say, for I had been looking for- 
ward for a quiet rest in this dear, dull, gloomy, sea- 
bound prison, where you and I were cradled, Hilton 
Fernbrook, and where I intend listening to your won- 
derful experiences in other lands. Kiki taio mari. I 
must postpone my pleasures for a more convenient 
season.” 

“ Why, pray ? ” 

“ Mrs. Gayland is my patient. The physician did 
me the honor to ascribe my friend’s recovery to my 
excellent nursing rather than to his skill. Compliment- 
ary, rather — but scarcely true. We are ordered a 
change of scene, and I am pledged to accompany my 
friend. I must go, sir. Ta-ta!” 

“ Where do you intend going? ” 

“To the Wonderland of this wonderful country — 
the hot springs at Wairoa,” she replies, laughing. 
“For some months we intend to throw off the usages 
of civilization, and become wanderers and pilgrims 
round Rotomahana. We shall scale the Fire Mount, 
Rotorua; and bask in the sunny ripples of Lake Tara- 
wera. Our eyes shall behold the Maori War-god, who 
stands with his flaming mm at the rugged gates of the 
Pink and White Terraces, the wonder and envy of the 
great round world — the— ^ — ” 

“Pray pause and take breath,” he interjects. 

“ Sir, you will have to do penance for interrupting 
me,” she cries. “ I want a boon.” 

“ Ask, and it is granted, Te Coro f ’ 7 

l 7 


258 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ You are not wise.” 

“ Why so, Uni Titif (My darling). 

“ Because I am a woman, and I may want the moon.” 

“ Say, rather, the man in it , Te Coro ! ” lie rejoins 
gayly. 

“ That is certainly nearer to my request, sir. Bosco 
the Maori, was my father’s foster-brother. Can Bosco 
accompany me toWairoa?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Then, I will say good-bye,” she responds, rising. 
“ I see you are impatient to get back again to the 
Times” 

“ One moment — that reminds me. This struggle 
between the Rebels and our men appears to be drifting 
round to the vicinity of Rotomahana. Will j^our trip 
be free from danger ? ” 

There is a flash from the girl’s magnificent black 
eyes. “ Tut ! ” she says. “ Am I not a Maori — the 
daughter of Te Papa ? ” 

Fernbrook smiles. “ Well, then, I hope you will 
return soon. Be good enough to tender my regards to 
your fair friend, and a wish for her speedy recovery.” 

Te Coro has her hand on the door, when her com- 
panion remembers something he had to say : “ Did 
I mention to you that a gentleman named Dusk ac- 
companied me from England here ? ” he asks. 

“ No.” 

“Write the name in your book, beside that of a 
Victor Mauprat, Mr. Dusk is somewhere in the 
neighborhood of Mount Tarawera, and you may 
possibly meet.” 

Te Coro obeys. 

“ Has your friend decided to view the wonders of 
Maoriland ? ” she asks, 


Poor te cgRo. 


259 


“I think not. The man is a detective. His mission 
is to find our friend the convict, and take him back 
again to jail.” 

Te Coro shudders and retires noiselessly. 

The great wheel of life moves round slowly for 
Victorine Gay land. Each revolution has its pain and 
its tears for her, spite of all her pride and her phi- 
losophy. The elite wend the even tenor of their way 
as heretofore, and do not miss their leader. They 
marry and are given in marriage, and dance, and jig, 
and amble, and lisp, and nickname one another, just 
the same as if the poor, weak, suffering worm of 
Fashion had never queened it over them. Poor 
Victorine Gayland ! rest thy sorrowing head upon the 
soft bosom of Te Coro— faithful until death for thee. 
Let the lights gleam upon fair women and handsome 
men. Let diamonds sparkle and soft music roll 
amidst all the splendor that money can produce. It is 
only Dead Sea fruit, after all — a hollow sham ! 

Amos Ward calls often to see the patient, but he 
knows now there is no hope for him beyond her friend- 
ship. Love is dead within the soul of Major Hargrave’s 
daughter. Ah! how she longs and yearns for her old 
life again, in that poor cottage on the sea wall. The 
needy griping penury that made her sour and dis- 
satisfied w r ould be thrice welcome now, if it could bring 
with it her dead father, and that one love which was 
lost to her forever. She had prayed for riches, and 
lo ! they were hers in abundance. Heaven help her — 
how powerless they were! 

Save Te Coro, no one knew — or would ever know, 
for the matter of that — how near this woman of the 
world had been to self-destruction. From the con- 
templation of the awful act the unhappy Victorine re- 


260 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

coiled with horror. Henceforth she would think of ifc ; 
no more, nor of the cause thereof. Out of the dark- 
ness had come to her a glimmer of light and hope — the 
hope which often- stimulates the world-weary, who 
have discovered that all which glitters is not gold. 
Not at the shrine of Saint or the footstool of Priest, but 
to “ Our Father, which art in Heaven,” did Victorine 
Gayland vow to devote the remainder of her life. The 
poor were to be her field ; and her mission — charity. 
Get well quickly, dear lady, and enter upon thy good 
work ! 


WARD’S RIFLES. 


261 


CHAPTER XXV. 

ward’s RIFLES. 

Round and rofind turns the wheel of life, with many 
a mad revolution for Amos Ward. He is a man of 
energetic and combative temperament, one of that 
obstinate, hard-headed breed which is the strength of 
the Greater Britain which is surely rising at the An- 
tipodes. To sit down and bemoan his fate — to cry and 
pule like a love-sick girl because a woman’s caprice 
stands between His Worship and earthly bliss ? 
Pshaw ! The Mayor of Auckland is a man of the 
world, in its most practical, work-a-day sense. He 
knows that Victorine Gay land has spoken the fiat 
which has surely blasted every hope of his social 
existence. He feels that something has gone out of 
his life ; hut forth from the utter loneliness within 
him rises his salvation. He must work! Ay, that is 
at, your Worship. Work has been the saviour of 
many a better man ere now. 

He casts about him for something to do. Xo 
ordinary work will suit his present malady. Besides, 
he is rich, very rich, and most of his wealth is to his 
hand in current coin of the realm. What work can he 
undertake in his position ? While he sits thinking out 
the problem, Phil Brock solves it for him in half a 
dozen words : 

“Arrah ! what the devil is the matter wid ye, sorr, 
that ye’re mopin’ about like a calf that has lost its 


262 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


mother?” cries the irrepressible valet. “Come, now, 
buy a rifle, an’ be off wid ye to fight the Maoris. Why 
don’t ye, agra ? ” 

“ Good ! I have it,” responds the master, his blue 
eyes ablaze with inspiration, and rising from his seat. 

“Musha, an’ much good may it do you,” responds 
the other, looking at the Mayor in a doubtful way, as 
if not quite certain about his sanity. “Tell me what 
you’ve got, avick ! Is it the gumgecum, or a touch of 
hydrophobia? say, alannali!” 

“You old villain — how dare ” 

“ There you go ! Of course I’m the worst in the 
world, bekase of my sympathy,” interrupted Brock, 
with a look of wounded innocence. 

Amos Ward laughed. “ Look here, Phil, how would 
you like to join the volunteers, eh?” 

“Me — is it?” responds the confidential servant, 
with a stare. “ Is it ould Phil Brock to be a militia- 
man — an’ wear a red coat that doesn’t seem to cover 
a man’s redundancy ? Go along out o’ that wid ye. 
Shure it’s only joking ye are ! ” 

“Indeed, I’m not, Phil. Your words gave me an 
idea, and by Jove, I’ll do it.” 

“ Do what, master dear ? ” 

“ Raise a regiment and go out and fight the Rebel 
Maoris.” 

Poor Brock held up his hands in dumb amaze. He 
had had his doubts about his master — Lord help him ! 
— but this settled it. 

There were many others besides the faithful Phil 
who began to have misgivings respecting Ward’s 
soundness of brain, but the man went his way not 
heeding. He had found an outlet for his trouble, and 
that was sufficient for him. He banqueted the city 


WARD’S RIFLES. 


263 


councillors, and resigned his mayoralty within the 
week ; then commenced to put his scheme into opera- 
tion. To a man with money at his command, there 
was no difficulty in getting a body of men suitable for 
the purpose. Indeed, at the liberal scale of pay of- 
fered, Amos Ward could have enrolled six thousand 
rank and file as easily as six hundred. 

The Government of the day gladly availed them- 
selves of the reinforcement. They provided competent 
drill instructors and arms for them — bestowed the 
local rank of Colonel upon the founder, and in a very 
short time “ Ward’s Rifles ” were ready for the field. 

The new corps did not waste much time in the City 
of Auckland. Before the men were fairly initiated into 
the manual and platoon exercises, they received orders 
to march to the aid of the Commander of the Local 
Forces, Colonel Chesterton, at Taurauga. 

Tonga and Te Huri, Chieftains of Taranaki, together 
with their warlike tribes, had joined PaulTitori in the 
Rotomahana district, a most difficult part of the country 
for an attacking force to operate against an enemy, 
inasmuch as almost every hill and mount formed an 
almost impregnable position. Two years previous to 
our tale, the dissatisfied Maoris were at w^ork fortify- 
ing and strengthening every point of vantage round 
and about the famous Mount Rotorua. The Gate Pah, 
the stronghold at Judea, together with the Block Fort, 
formed three of the strongest positions of the Rebels ; 
and had the Maori leader been supplied with cannon, 
the volunteers, brave and effective as they certainly 
were, would have been utterly powerless to cope with 
him. It was in the vicinity of the Gate Pah, a few 
miles west of Taurauga, that Colonel Ward first en- 
countered the enemy. The gunboat “ Harrier ” had 


264 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOIC 


brought the corps from Auckland and landed them at 
the settlement — Bay of Plenty. One hundred blue- 
jackets from the warships, with two small Armstrong 
guns accompanied the Rifles in their march to join Col- 
onel Chesterton, whose camp lay beyond Tonga’s Peak. 
The reinforcements had safely crossed the ford at 
Wairoa, and were bivouacked for the night on a high 
ridge, overlooking the river. Lieutenants Baker andl 
Howard, of the “ Harrier,” with that ready tact innate 
in seamen, had rigged up an alfresco mess-room for 
the nonce, and, with sailor-like hospitality, invited 
Ward and his officers to join them at dinner. What- 
ever may have been wanting in the way of silver and 
glass at this primitive banquet, there was certainly no 
lack of provisions and wine, for Jack usually takes 
care to accommodate himself under any circumstances 
and in all places. While the men gathered in groups 
along the line of piled arms, their comrades, the sea- 
men, made a roaring fire of kauri logs. A fiddle was 
unearthed from the recesses of a gun-carriage and songs 
and jokes became the order of the evening. 

Phil Brock, though disdaining drill or discipline in 
toto , had donned the uniform of the Rifles and followed 
his master. A knot of petty officers had gathered in a 
circle, within speaking distance of the mess, ready to 
be at the call of their superiors within the tent. 
Amongst them was the confidential servant, close along- 
side a coxswain, by name Bill ITalcombe, for whose 
company the Irishman had taken a fancy. There was 
no lack of pipes or grog among them, and they soon 
began to be as mellow as men under such conditions 
always are. 

Snarly, and betimes unsocial to morbidness, Brock 
seemed to be in great good humor with himself and 


WARD’S RIFLES. 


265 


with those around him now. He was the talker on 
this occasion, the sailors listening. Others were listen- 
ing, too, for the officers in the mess tent could hear 
every word he uttered. 

“ Bad cess to me, but it’s the truth I’m tellin’ yez, 
boys,” with a grim laugh. “ The ugliest divvies ye 
ever saw, some of them same ‘ Ward’s Rifles,’ wid 
their goose-step, and their ‘ pressents ’ and ‘ shoulder 
arrum’s,’ an’ the like. Shure, there’s not one o’ them 
could hit a mountain at five paces distant. Bedad, 
just wait until there’s a row, that’s all ; ye’ll see some 
fine divarsion, if the Maoris come on us.” 

“ The Maoris be blowed ! ” responds Bill. “ I guess 
these chaps will fight like tarnation if they have a 
chance. A finer body of men couldn’t be got together 
in the country. Pass the pannikin, old man.” 

“ Oh, faix, they’re big enough,” says Phil, placing 
a tin pot to his mouth that contained something more 
aromatic than water, then passing the can to his com- 
rade. “ That reminds me, ma bouchal, when I was a 
gossoon, thirty-five years ago, I belonged to the North 
Cork Rifles Militia, and in the same company was a 
tall scaffold-pole of a fellow, about your own height 
and build, agra. This man was always looking down 
at his feet, which, let me tell you, were not great 
beauties in the laste. Tall as the spalpeen was, there 
was a good portion of him on the ground in the make- 
up of them same feet, which I may say had no more 
instep on them than a brick has. Well, begorra! 
we had the smallest officer for a captain that ye ever set 
your two eyes on. He wasn’t five feet high— an’ wid his 
heels to his boots three inches long. One morning the 
captain sees Madigan (the long gander) wid his head 
down as usual — up he goes and stands fore-ninst the 


266 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

man, an’ siz he 4 Arrah, hould up yer head.’ Madigan 
lifts his eyes from his boots and fixes them on the sky. 
4 Now,’ siz the little man, ‘ let me see you always 
hould up yer head like that.’ 4 Always ? ’ cries the 
long fellow. 4 Yes, sir, always,’ ses’ the captain. 
4 Good-bye, then,’ retorts Madigan, houlding out his 
hand. 4 1 shall never see you again ! ’ ” 

There was a roar of laughter from the mess. 

44 Listen to the blaguards,” says Phil, in an Irish 
whisper. 44 Shure a dacent man can’t be talking to his 
neighbor, but they must be listening to all you’re say- 
ing, just as if it was treason. Where’s their manners, 
I wonder ? It’s mighty good-natured some people can 
be when they’ve had a skinful of good liquor ; never 
dreaming that a poor body has a mouth on them.” 
(In a louder key) — 44 I’ll lay ye now that the master’s 
as full as an egg.” 

Another peal of laughter from all save the Colonel, 
who instantly became as red in the face as a turkey- 
cock. Phil had shot his bolt, and did not wait the 
issue. 44 It’s a quare world, mate,” says he, gliding 
off into another topic with true diplomacy. 44 1 renum- 
ber when I came out to the colonies, we had an ould 
couple on board by the name of Mr. and Missus Brophy. 
They were saloon passengers, if ye plase, an’ they gave 
more throuble then all the other two hundred men and 
women in the ship. Ould Brophy was throubled with 
windy spasms and colic — a murderin’ sudden and pain- 
ful complaint. It would come on him all in a minute — 
sometimes in the daytime, sometimes in the dead of 
night. The moment her husband began to groan Mis- 
tress Norah Brophy would start up, rush to the cuddy, 
make a thunderin’ big mustard-and-pepper poultice and 
apply it in a jiffey. In the very next cabin to the Bro- 


WARD’S RIFLES. 


267 


phys was a great rough Colonel, who had lost an eye 
and one of his arrums in the Crimee ; and be jabers, one 
night ould Brophy has an attack of his inimy the colic. 
Away rushes his wife to the ship’s caboose, makes the 
plaster, but in the hurry the poor woman mistook the 
Colonel’s cabin for her own. Widout a word she whips 
down the bedclothes, and dabs the poultice on the sa- 
cred person of the slumbering son of Mars. Whoop ! 
Be the powers, if there wasn’t a murtherin’ philalloo 
the next minnit that roused everybody in the ship 
from stim to starn. The Colonel was out of his bunk 
in a twinkling, and drawing his naked sword, chased 
the misfortunate woman for her bare life. The Cap- 
tain, hearing the row, rushed below just in time to 
receive Nor ah Brophy in his arms. 

“ ‘ What’s the matter ? ’ cried the Skipper. 

“ ‘ Matter ! ’ echoes the Colonel, furiously, at the 
same time dabbing the point of his weapon into the 
poultice which had fallen from him to his feet. ‘ Look 
at this, sir. This is a very good joke, eh? Now, I 
want to know who’s done me the honor to apply this 
article to my unoffending person without my author- 
ity?” 

“The Captain coughed: ‘My dear Colonel, your 
habiliments are hardly in conformity with the rules of 
high etiquette,’ ses he. 

“‘Hang etiquette!’ roared the Colonel. ‘If it 
comes to that, you’re not standing on ceremony, Cap- 
tain Dawson, for you're not in full uniform.’” 

A roar of laughter drowned the remainder of 
Brock’s story, and in the midst of it there walked 
into the circle a tall personage, clad in a sober brown 
tweed. 

The appearance of the man was so sudden and unex- 


268 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

pected, that the sailors started to their feet with an 
exclamation of surprise. 

“Don’t stir, my men,” he said in a quiet, cool tone. 
“Be good enough to find Colonel Ward, and say an 
old friend wishes to see him. ” 

“ It’s Mister Fernbrook, sure enough ! ” cried Phil, 
lifting his cap. “ Step this way, sir — here’s the mas- 
ter.” 

“Hallo, Fernbrook! Who would have thought of 
seeing you here in this part of the country ?” exclaimed 
Ward, rising and shaking the new-comer by the hand. 
“ Gentlemen, this is an old friend, Mr. Hilton Fern- 
brook, of the Barrier Rock.” 

Another powder-keg is brought for a chair, and a 
fresh supply of grog put on the board. “ Let me ask 
if you have dined?” said Ward. 

“Yes, thanks; I had a capital dinner at the Wel- 
lington Wairoa, where I am obliged to stay for a few 
days on business. It was my intention to have jour- 
neyed with you from Taurauga, but the mail-boat from 
Auckland broke her shaft opposite the Three Kings, 
and we were delayed. By the way, you have a superb 
dining-hall — quite Arcadian.” The voice is jaunty, 
with an easy, well-bred ring in it, but the eyes wander 
keenly over the faces of those present. 

“ How did you find our route ? ” asks the Colonel, 
presently. 

“ Quite easy. Old Tepari, of Te Rauga, saw you 
pass yesterday, and assisted you to ford the Wairoa 
this afternoon. He it was who brought me hither, 
otherwise I’m afraid I should have found myself in the 
middle of a swamp, or at the bottom of the river.” 

The conversation begins to flow freely now, for 
Fernbrook fits himself into his place in the company, 


WARD’S RIFLES. 


269 


as if he had filled it all the evening. The punch flows 
freely, as does the talk. Every conceivable topic is in- 
troduced and skimmed over with that light, airy, after- 
dinner brevity which makes mess dinner so attractive. 
Last, but by no means least, it veers round to the dis- 
turbed state of the country and the chances of the 
parties engaged. By a few subtle questions, Fern- 
brook has led his companions to the subject, and 
appears deeply interested in all they say. 

“ The Maoris have a hopeless task, and must suc- 
cumb in the end,” says Howard. “ The ablest Rebel 
against us is Paul Titori, but the flower of his follow- 
ing were slain in the Waikato Campaign. Two years 
ago Titori had thirty thousand warriors at his beck 
and call ; to day he has not one-third that number, 
though he has been reinforced by the Taranaki tribes.” 

“ I heard in Taurauga that the Rebels have their 
strongest pah in this part of the country,” responds 
Fernbrook. “ Tepari assures me that the whole force 
of Colonel Chesterton is not sufficient to attack any 
one of these places. His handful of men would be 
annihilated.” 

Howard laughs. “ The friendly Maori knows very 
little of the fighting spirit of our men. I dare wager 
that every pah in Rotomahana is taken and demolished 
before the end of the year.” 

“Where is Colonel Chesterton, may I ask?” 

“ At Tonga’s Peak.” 

“ Of course he has a large force with him ? ” 

“ No, about two thousand all told,” responds Howard. 
“ Once we join him, Titori may prepare for squalls ; 
for I know by my Waikato experience with Chesterton, 
that hard knocks will be the order of the day.” 

“ Two thousand fighting men against twenty thou- 


270 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

sand or even ten thousand fighting Maoris seems tome 
a risky project,” says Fernbrook; “I suppose your 
corps ” (turning toWard) “does not exceed a thou- 
sand men ? ” 

“ Six hundred.” 

“ Ah, and recruits all, I reckon ? ” 

“ Quite so, my dear Fernbrook ; yet I think the lads 
will give a good account of themselves.” 

“ I trust they may, Colonel,” responds the guest, 
sipping his punch. “ I heard some talk of five regi- 
ments of volunteers having been raised in Australian 
colonies. Is that correct ? ” 

“ It is, sir,” replies Howard. “ Our Skipper had a 
letter from the Commodore, stating that the men were 
on their way to Auckland per ‘Blue Jacket’ and 
4 Swiftsure ’ steamers.” 

“Bad news for our friend Titori?” 

“ Ay. The Chieftain is a foeman worthy of our 
steel, and I’m sorry he is not with us.” 

From Paul Titori to Colonel de Roal^and his con- 
federates, the conversation goes at a bound. Fern- 
brook listens while the others fill in their opinions 
without the smallest shadow of reserve. Once or 
twice the guest is appealed to, but he adroitly staves 
off any direct reply, save only when it serves as a 
means of opening up the subject more fully. 

It is late when Colonel Ward’s friends rise to depart. 
“ My dear fellow, you will stay and share my rough 
couch to-night ? ” he asks. 

Fernbrook shakes his head. “ Not when I can get 
a comfortable bed at mine inn,” he replied. “ I have 
spent a very pleasant evening, gentlemen, and can 
only wish that at no distant day I may have the 
pleasure of your company at the Rock.” 


WARD’S RIFLES. £71 

‘‘Let me send a file of my men with yon as far as 
the river ? ” 

“Thanks. The friendly Maori is waiting for me at 
the base of the ridge. Good-night ! I trust the for- 
tunes of war will bring you honor and distinction. 
Any commands for the city ? ” 

“None, Fernbrook. Au revoir /” 

The tall figure goes down the hill, whistling a snatch 
of a familiar opera air, and Colonel Ward goes the 
round of the sentinels to see that they are alert on 
their posts. It is after midnight when he returns. 
The temporary mess-room has been turned into a 
sleeping apartment by the addition of a few armfuls 
of fragrant ferns, on which the stalwart forms of half 
a dozen officers are now stretched in heavy slumber. 

Phil Brock brings his master’s cloak. “ Who’s the 
gintleman ye had dining wid ye ? ” 

“Don’t you know Mr. Fernbrook, Phil?” 

“ Indade I do not,” responds the old man, with an 
obstinate jerk of his head. “ Who’s to tell Mr. Fern- 
brook from the man that’s been taken for him during 
the last few years an’ more, when even his ould nurse 
didn’t know the difference ? Tell me that, now.” 

Ward pauses in the act of unbuckling his sword- 
belt. 

“You don’t mean to say that you suspect our friend 
to be that scoundrel Mauprat, the convict ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” says Brock, coolly. 

“ Pooh ! You old fool ! you’ve been drinking.” 

“Oh, thank you. If I have, agra, it’s only taking 
pattern after me betters, I’ve been,” cries Phil, in high 
dudgeon. “ Maybe if you had been less occupied wid 
the punch, an’ minding your duty, you’d have axed 
yourself the question— ‘ What the devil’s this man 


272 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

doom’ here, I wonder ? ’ as I did when I saw him enter 
the tent. Mark that ! ” 

One of the prostrate officers rose into a sitting pos- 
ture. “ By Jove, Colonel, there may be something in 
what the old chap says,” he cried. 

“ Thrue for ye, Captain Harrington. Musha, I’m 
glad to meet one man with sense among ye.” 

“ You remember, this fellow Mauprat and his 
confederates are known to be in the camp of the 
Rebels,” continues Captain Harrington, not heeding 
Phil’s remark. “ What more probable than that this 
adventurer, with his wonderful resemblance to young 
Fernbrook, should seek to personate him, even here ? ” 

“With what object, Captain?” 

“Tf your man’s supposition be correct, we shall not 
have far to look for an object,” answers Harrington, 
rising to his feet. “ It strikes me our guest was 
very particular in his inquiries about matters which I 
don’t think would have troubled a non-military man 
like Fernbrook, though I confess it did not strike me 
at the time. We have a convoy of ammunition — fifty 
thousand rounds — for our comrades at Tonga’s Peak. 
Report says that Titori is short of this chief staple of 
war, and is offering for lead its own weight in gold 
coin. I am not an alarmist, my dear fellow, but to be 
forewarned is to be forearmed.” 

“ Your zeal is commendable, Harrington ; but I cer- 
tainly cannot have been deceived in the face of an old 
friend whom I have known from boyhood,” says the 
Colonel, smiling. 

“ Hilton Fernbrook and myself were at St. John’s 
College together for three years,” says the Captain. 
“ Last Christmas I went to the Barrier to visit my 
friend, and remained in the house for a month without 


WARD'S RIFLES. 273 

discovering tiie difference between my college chum 
and a rascally convict.” 

The Colonel laughs. “ Egad, you were not singular 
in that respect, my dear fellow. After all, I may 
have been mistaken. We will give Victor Mauprat 
the benefit of the doubt. Brock, go quietly and ask 
Lieutenant Howard to look in here for a few minutes.” 

Exit Phil, with a look of satisfaction. 

“ It will be as well to double the sentries, and place 
them farther down the ridge,” continues the Colonel, 
after a moment’s reflection. “Will you be good 
enough to see it done, Harrington ?” 

In half an hour the “ Rifles are standing to their 
arms in rear of the little column of men-of-war’s men, 
drawn up a little to the left of the two guns, which have 
been placed in a favorable position under the com- 
mand of Lieutenant Howard. Not a few of the men 
wonder what is the matter. They converse in low 
tones, speculating upon a brush with the enemy. 
Some have it that the Rebels are marching in force 
to intercept them, and cut them off from joining 
Colonel Chesterton. Others whisper that Maoris never 
fight in the darkness, and the standing to arms is only 
a ruse to get them accustomed to their work in the 
field. 

The hours go slowly, expectantly by. One — two — 
three o’clock ! Hark ! Crack ! crack ! boom the rifles 
of outlying sentries. Not in one spot alone are seen 
the sudden flashes of the musketry, but in a circle of 
living fire round the base of the ridge. 

Colonel Ward has just time to form his men into 
quarter-distance column of * companies, when the 
scouts fall hurriedly back upon the main body. Some 
of them never get back at all, for in the dim light, a 
18 


274 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

broad dark line is seen to advance and swallow them up, 
nor pause until the hill-top is gained ; then with a 
wild, unearthly yell, which makes a reverberating 
echo along the adjacent hills, the head of the advanc- 
ing column rushes upon certain destruction. With 
admirable coolness the gunners wait their opportunity, 
then the murderous missiles belch forth and plough a 
wide lane down the living wall. Spite of guns, spite 
of more than one deadly volley, the intrepid warriors 
gain the ridge, and hold it. Nothing can stem their 
determined, headlong rush. 

“Death to the Pakeha!” is heard above the din, 
rolling and swelling like nothing else on this fair 
earth, save the noise that men make when the fero- 
cious and brute part of them is let loose and rampant 
in deadly conflict. 

Te Huri, the giant, and a white man by his side, 
dressed in tight-fitting coat of mica flax, lead the van, 
and seem to bear charmed lives. There is no light 
for manoeuvres, no room for military tactics. It is a 
give-and-take encounter in every stage of its dreadful 
progress; Maori and Pakeha go down together in 
death’s hug, silently and without a groan. 

“Death to the Pakeha!” The voice of the huge 
Hebei Leader sounds loud and clear as a trumpet-blast, 
above the roar of voices. lie and his companion with 
the flaxen tamba have penetrated into the solid ranks 
of the volunteers, and rank and file go down before 
their meris like so many dried reeds beneath a mower’s 
scythe. 

“ Death to the Pakeha ! ” The Maori war-cry is 
answered by cheer after cheer from bands of twenty 
and less, who stand shoulder to shoulder and fight 
with desperate courage against long odds. Colonel 


WARD'S RIFLES. 


275 


Ward is down, his body pierced with more than one 
gaping wound. While his strength lasts his voice is 
heard urging the “Rifles” to stand fast and use the 
bayonet. The order is needless. The bayonet is the 
only weapon that can be brought into play now, for 
the men have no time to load. Round and about the 
guns the battle seems to rage fiercest. The dead and 
wounded are literally lying here in a heap, forming a 
rampart round the remnant of gallant tars, who stand 
to be slaughtered at their posts rather than retreat 
a single pace. This spot forms the rallying-point for 
the hard-pressed volunteers. 

The superior force hurled against them has riven 
their columns into shreds and patches, but the first 
fierce thunderous onslaught of the Maoris past, they 
reunite again and form square with the small battery 
in the centre. Rot all the dash and daring of the 
warriors can. break the ranks of the hated Pakehas. 
Again and again the Rebel leaders hurl their best men 
against it, but they are driven back with ruthless 
butchery. Long before daybreak the Rebel host, 
beaten and discomfited, are in full retreat, leaving a 
spectacle behind them that is appalling to the eye of day. 

On the self-same morning that witnessed the san- 
guinary battle of Te Rauga, Mrs. Victorine Gayland 
and her companion, Te Coro, arrived at Wairoa. The 
news came to them, as it came to others on that fair 
morn — news of a battle won, and of brave men bleed- 
ing to death for want of succor and attendance. And 
this woman, who had consecrated herself at the shrine 
of Charity, put aside self and began her labor of love. 
Every available resource that could aid her was at once 
put into requisition. The wounded were conveyed 
into Wairoa. Medical men rode post-haste from 


276 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

Taurauga. Tents, bedding, and all the requirements 
needed followed them ; in short, before midnight the 
little township had been transformed into a temporary 
hospital. 

In the strangest of all strange positions were found 
the wounded and the dead at Te Rauga. Phil Brock, 
with both legs broken, lay near the senseless and bloody 
form of his master ; both were ringed in by the dusky 
bodies of dead warriors. When they lifted the old 
Irishman, to bear him away, he thrust them back with 
a startled cry : 

“ Amos, darlint, my dear, tinder-hearted master ! 
where are ye, acushla? It’s ould Phil that’s calling 
ye ! Spake to me ! spake to me ! Och hone ! Dead ! 
dead ! ” 

But Amos Ward was not dead. 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


277 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

NE PLUS ULTRA. 

It was just three weeks after the affray atTe Rauga 
that Peter Dusk found his way into the camp of the 
Rebels at Judea. Smarting under their recent defeat 
at the Block Pah, the Maoris would have made short 
work of their prisoner, had it not been for the fact 
that Titori had handed him over to his Pakeha allies. 
True to his purpose, Colonel de Roal had the spy de- 
tective brought before him again on the evening of the 
day of his capture. Beside the Colonel sat the Ferret, 
or Joe Sharpe. The former waved his arm, a signal 
for the Maori guard to depart, and the three men were 
left together. 

We have before stated that the detective was a keen 
fellow, with a nerve of iron, else it is not probable he 
would have risked his life by venturing into the strong- 
hold of the Maori to find his man. Looking at the pair 
before him, Dusk saw that his existence hung upon a 
mere thread ; but his courage rose with the occasion, 
and he decided on a bold move, if necessary. 

De Roal said : “ I suppose you think it odd to find 
some of your countrymen here in the Rebel camp ? ” 

“ Xo ; perhaps you are, like myself, better here than 
elsewhere.” 

De Roal smiled. “ Have you any idea who we are ? 

" Yes,” replied Dusk, frankly. u The report is that 


278 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


four prisoners broke out of the stockade lately, and 
joined the Rebels under Titori. 

“ Is that the report ? ” 

“ It is.” 

“ And is it believed ? ” 

“Yes” 

“ Do me the favor to correct such a canard , if you 
ever get back to camp with Colonel Chesterton,” 
answered the Colonel, gravely. “Row, your name, 
friend ? I have forgotten it.” 

“Peter Dusk.” 

There was a sudden flash of intelligence in the eyes 
of the Ferret, who bent forward and briefly whispered 
to his companion. The Colonel played with the band- 
age round his wounded limb for a moment. “ How 
long have you been in the volunteers, Mr. Dusk?” he 
said. 

“ Some considerable time.” 

“ Where were you posted when you had the misfor- 
tune to fall asleep ? ” 

“ What does it matter? I am here. No man in his 
senses would take the step I have unless he had some 
powerful motive.” 

“ Just so,” replied De Roal, radiant ; “ it is your 
motive I want to fathom, Mr. Dusk.” 

“ To escape fifty lashes, or, perhaps, worse punish- 
ment, is a sufficient motive, sir, I think.” 

Again the Ferret whispered to his colleague, who 
nodded and smiled. “ Ah ! You had no other motive 
in visiting Judea ?” 

Dusk hesitated, then stammered : “ Perhaps I 

had.” 

The Colonel looked surprised, but said mildly, “ Come, 
Mr. Dusk, speak out. The Pakehas here will help you, 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


279 


if possible. It is curious to us that you clid. not stray 
into the pah by chance. What is the purport of your 
visit ? allow me to repeat.” 

The detective hesitated again, with admirable acting : 
“ Are we quite alone here ? ” 

“ Quite, and no one can overhear what is said.” 

“ Hark ye, then ! I am not a volunteer. I stole this 
uniform from a dead man outside the pah.” 

“ Who are you, then ?” said Sharpe, with a snarl in 
his voice like that of a terrier ere he bites. 

“A jail-bird. Nothing less.” 

“Oh! One of the escapees from the stockade?” 
suggested the Colonel. 

“ Exactly ; but you will not let that prejudice you ? ” 
returned Dusk, quickly. 

“Nay; such a recommendation would rather weigh 
in your favor,” answered De Roal, with a sweet laugh. 
“ Tell me, what was your crime, friend?” 

“ Burglary. Robbing a bank.” 

“ And you were caught ? ” 

“No; I and three companions got clear away with a 
sum of three thousand pounds, and a bag of gold-dust 
worth tli rice that sum, which we hid,” said Dusk, 
again hesitating, and watching the faces of his ex- 
aminers. 

“ Humph ! Go on.” 

“ Thirteen thousand pounds was a big haul, and the 
bank made desperate efforts to regain the money. I 
suspected they would ; I also suspected that out of 
four men one would probably be found to betray his 
confederates. This law is as true as the needle to the 
pole, if you test it carefully. We hid the booty in a 
cave on the coast, but having an idea that the adage 
of c honor among thieves ’ was not to be taken literally 


280 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


in this case, I found another hiding-place for the tnoney. 
Perhaps it was well I took the precaution, for in less 
than twenty-four hours afterwards three of us were 
arrested for the robbery.” 

“ And the fourth ? ” 

“ Turned Queen’s evidence, of course, received a par- 
don, and was sent out of the colony.” 

“Well, friend, what about the spoil?” said the 
Colonel, after a long pause, during which his steely 
eyes glittered with a strange light. 

Dusk looked cautiously round. “ The gold lies hid 
where I planted it,” he said, in a low tone that rose no 
higher than a-whisper. “ It was the all-absorbing de- 
sire to possess myself of the treasure which prompted 
me to risk escape.” 

“ Is the money hid hereabouts ? ” 

“ Ay ; I was making towards the spot when the 
Maoris found me.” 

“ Ah, I see ! ” and the Colonel stroked his mous- 
tache reflectively, as if gauging some mental problem. 
“ Of course you have a proposal to make ? ” 

“That is certainly my idea,” answered Dusk, coolly; 
“ but would it not be better to make the proposition 
in the presence of your companions ? ” 

“ It is not necessary. Be good enough to proceed.” 

“Thirteen thousand pounds, I repeat, is to be had 
within a mile of the cliff yonder by the sea. The 
spot is well marked. My proposal is that you and 
your companions leave this place, take me with you, 
and I will show you where the gold is hid.” 

De Roal raised his eyes. “Anything else?” he 
asked. 

“ No ; save that we share and share alike,” said 
Dusk. 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


281 


The Ferret bent forward and whispered to the Colo- 
nel again. “The sum you name is no doubt consider- 
able ; yet it would not give much, divided into fifty 
parts.” 

“ Fifty ! ’’echoed Dusk, for a moihent taken off his 
guard. “ I understood there were only four white men 
with Titori.” 

Colonel de Roal smiled. “ My friend, you are a very 
clever fellow, and I admire your address and courage 
very much,” said he. “ To me you appear no mean 
student of human nature, but you forget the first prin- 
ciple — nay, I may say the ruling law of creation, 
namely, the weaker must go to the wall. With a poor 
hand, you have managed to play an excellent game. 
Let me say how sorry I am that you have had the mis- 
fortune to be pitted against men who know the cards 
better than yourself, mon ayniP 

“ I do not understand,” said the prisoner, still un- 
daunted. 

“ That is your misfortune,” answered De Roal, with 
his affable smile. “ I had a friend in the old country 
who was once troubled with a fox. Many traps were 
laid for friend Reynard, but without avail. One day 
my friend brained a rabbit with a pair of tongs ; into 
the wound he poured croton oil, and then hid the dead 
animal within the hutch. The fox came, discovered 
his booty, and sucked the wound. Well, next day 
they found the thief by the bank of the river — dead ! ” 

“He was a foolish fox to be caught so easily.” 

“Just so. How, my friend, there are human foxes 
who are to be caught with a more simple drug than 
croton oil. Let me tell you that the hide of a fox is 
too short to cover a wolf. Why did you not try some 
other disguise ? ” 


282 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

“ Colonel de Real ! ” 

“Ha! You know my name. You, the thief, who 
have been shut up in jail for robbing a bank,” cried the 
Colonel, quickly. “ Egad, sir, it is not very flattering 
to my intelligence, at least, to find that you went no 
farther than the rabbit hutch, expecting to find the 
game killed ready for your maw.” 

“ Speak plain,” said Dusk, his face changing sud- 
denly to defiance. 

“ There is no need to be plain, my fine fellow,” con- 
tinued De Roal, in a soft persuasive voice. “ Enough 
for you to know that we cannot accept vour story.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because it is not true ! Peter Dusk from Scotland 
Yard, we know you.” 

For just one moment there is a gleam in the pris- 
oner’s eyes, as he dived down his hand for the pistol 
secreted in his pants. It is but momentary, the 
thought and the attempt to put it into action. “ I am 
surprised, gentlemen ! You are entirely mistaken,” 
he said coolly. 

Still smiling, the Colonel calls the guard, who enter 
and surround their prisoner. 

“ This man is a spy,” says De Roal in Maori, and 
nodding towards Dusk — “ a dangerous spy, who has 
had the temerity to enter Judea, only to betray the 
Maori into the hands of Colonel Chesterton’s warriors, 
What shall we do with him ? ” 

“ Kill him,” replied Te Hiki in English, adding some- 
thing also which we dare not record here. 

“You hear?” cried the Colonel, with his sinister 
smile. “ These fellows will execute the verdict within 
the hour. Have you any message for your superiors 
in London ? ” 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


m 


Diplomacy at an end, the man rose equal to the oc- 
casion. “Yes,” he cried through his set teeth ; “ wire 

to Inspector H , and say I have found Victor Mau- 

prat and his confederates, and that I mean to have 
them in Newgate by the end of the year, or ” 

“ Go on, mon ami ; why do you pause ? ” said De Roal. 

“ Or in hell ! ” cried Dusk, with a low bow. 

Joe Sharpe laughed loudly, and rubbed his hands 
together, as the guard led out their captive. The 
Maoris did not return to the place whence Dusk had 
been brought for the interview. They crossed the pah 
at the point where the road opened to the space below, 
consisting of a broad plateau, bare of trees, and sloping 
downward to a deep ravine, then ascending again to 
the other side, to the high cliffs of the coast wall. 

Outside the works of the pah, the warrior in charge 
of the escort halted his men, six in number, and spoke 
a few words to them, after which they conducted their 
prisoner down the hill towards the ravine. Peter Dusk 
understood what was in store for him, though he did 
not comprehend one word of what had been uttered. 
Looking round him in sheer desperation for some way 
of escape, his quick eye noted a party coming up the 
hill towards them. There were five persons, three 
Maoris armed with rifles, the Chief Titori leading 
a Maori girl, attired in a dark robe of mica flax, 
fastened at the waist with a silk sash. On her 
head was a sealskin cap ornamented with a single 
toho feather. 

The parties met, and halted simultaneously. 
“ Whither go ye with the Pakeha ? ” said Titori. 

“ He is a spy. The white wolf, De Roal, has com- 
manded that he die the death.” 

Bah ! Why do not the Pakehas punish this halco 


284 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

themselves ? ” said the chief, with a frown. “ Take him 
hence ; the sight is hateful to me.” 

The escort were about to move on, when the Maori 
girl, who had been looking keenly at the captive, turned 
to Titori and uttered a few words in a low tone. The 
Chief smiled, and held up his hand. “ Te Coro wishes 
to speak with the Pakeha,” he said to the warrior in 
charge. Then turning to the daughter of Te Papa, for 
it was none other, he added with a graceful bend of his 
stately head, “ Titori has no voice here when Te Coro 
speaks. The Maoris are Te Papa’s children.” 

Waving an acknowledgment of the compliment with 
the grace of an empress, Te Coro advanced to the 
captive. “ Why are you here ? ” she asked in English. 

“ Trying to do my duty ! ” replied Dusk, in surprise. 

“What duty of yours can lie here, fn the Maori 
camp? You are a soldier by your uniform, but these 
men say you are a spy.” 

“It is not true.” 

“Your name, sir?” 

“ Peter Dusk.” 

Te Coro’s eyes sparkled. “You are the detective in 
search of Victor Mauprat and his companions ? ” 

Dusk started, and became suspicious instantly. “Is 
it necessary that I should answer that question, lady ? ” 

“No, if you do not think it a fair one,” she replied. 
“ Your present position is not enviable; perhaps I may 
help you to liberty. Are you the man who accompanied 
Mr. Hilton Fernbrook from England ? ” 

“ Yes, I came here to arrest Victor Mauprat.” 

“ Thank you ! ” and she turned to the chief : “ Titori, 
I have to crave the life of this Pakeha.” 

“ The haJco is yours,” answered the Rebel leader, with 
another stately bend towards her. “ Tiki, take back the 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 285 

warriors. The Pakeha is free to depart. I have 
spoken.” 

There was no more to be said after the last brief 
sentence. Once it is uttered by any one of the race, it is 
as unalterable as the laws of the Medes and Persians. 
The Maori guard wheeled about and marched back 
without their captive, while Te Coro whispered hur- 
riedly “ Go hence quickly ; this Maori,” beckoning to 
Bosco, “ will guide you to my hotel by the lake. Await 
my coming; I have instructions from Fernbrook for 
you. Away ! ” She turned and said a few words to 
her faithful attendant, who grunted an assent, slung 
his w T eapon over his shoulder, and nodded to Dusk to 
follow him, and the pair went down the declivity, and 
were soon lost to view. 

Whatever may have been the peculiarities of the 
daughter of Te Papa, she certainly possessed a mighty 
talisman over the leaders of that portion of her country- 
men who had taken up arms against the Government. 
Deference, and that tacit submission indicating respect, 
awaited her on all sides from the chiefs of the rebellion, 
who gathered in a group on the outer walls of the pah 
to welcome her. Te Coro, although reared and educated 
amongst the Pakehas, was still a Maori at heart, with 
all a Maori’s subtlety, and the desire for revenge strong 
within her. She had undertaken the journey to Titori 
with one fixed purpose — one object, to inflict personal 
chastisement upon the man who had won her regard 
under false pretences. Yeiling the true purport of her 
errand, she spoke of the adventurers in terms of un- 
mitigated contempt. They were base, deceitful, and 
utterly unworthy to consort with warriors who held 
truth and honor as the first and dearest principles of 
their manhood. These Pakehas were wicked slaves. 


286 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


By pretence, and wile, and fraud, they had usurped the 
places of honorable men. They were criminals hiding 
from justice, hiding here under the protection of men 
who were fighting for some of the dearest principles 
of the Maori race ; in short, it was a foul blot upon the 
Maori cause that it should count such monsters in its 
ranks, and they should be thrust forth without an hour’s 
delay. 

A powerful advocate this — with her changing mobile 
face, flashing eyes, and rich, full voice, that had in its 
tone the ring of conviction. The Chieftains held brief 
council together. Then Titori said: “Daughter of 
Te Papa, these men came to us with your recommen- 
dation. On the faith of it, they became our brothers. 
You say they are liars. So be it. To-morrow they 
shall depart from amongst us. Te awn ti Jciti. We 
have spoken.” 

The sun had not dipped behind Tonga’s Peak when 
Te Coro, satisfied with her brief visit, left the. pah in 
company with her two attendants. Beyond the cliff 
the road wound zigzag fashion into the valley of the 
Wairoa, where could be seen a solitary hotel, surrounded 
by one or two cottages, and a few dilapidated whares 
of the friendly natives. 

On a jutting ledge of rock overhanging the narrow 
road sat a man, who started to his feet on the approach 
of Te Coro. The girl cast a swift glance upward, then 
stopped. 

Pausing an instant, as if irresolute, the man came 
forward and raised his hat. 

“ Te Coro ! ” he exclaimed. 

“Hilton Fernbrook!” she rejoined, with a smile, 
though there was a strange gleam in her eyes the while. 
“ Why, who would have thought of meeting you in this 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


287 


wild part of the country ? When did you leave the 
Barrier Rock ? ” 

“ Oh, some days ago,” he responded lightly. “ My old 
friend Ward was wounded badly at Te Rauga, and I 
took a flying visit, as the saying goes, to see him. Poor 
fellow ! he is in a very critical state indeed.” 

Te Coro played with the tassel of her cloak, but did 
not look at him. “ I am truly sorry to hear it,” she 
said. “ Are you staying at the hotel ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ That will be pleasant,” still toying with the tassel. 
“ Bosco has gone forward to prepare accommodation 
for me. But, good Heavens! you have been hurt?” 
she added, looking him full in the face. 

He laughed. “It is nothing, a mere scratch,” he 
answered coolly. “I was fool enough to attempt to 
scale the north side of the Mount, and got a fall for 
my pains.” 

Somehow the conversation became strained and 
labored between them, then died out altogether, though 
Te Coro made several spasmodic attempts to keep it 
at an even flow. When they reached the hotel it was 
quite dark, but Bosco was ready to usher his mistress 
into a well-lighted apartment, which looked cosy and 
inviting after the fatiguing walk to Judea. 

“When can we have dinner, Bosco?” he asked, 
following Te Coro into the apartment. 

The Maori turned and looked at the speaker for the 
space of a minute, with his mouth agape. Catching a 
sign from the Maori girl, however, he went out with- 
out replying to the question. 

“ Dinner will not be ready for some time yet,” said 
Te Coro. “In the mean while I have something I 
want to say to you, Mr. Fernbrook.” 


288 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

The emphasis was so marked, that he turned to look 
at her. She had cast aside her hat and tamba, and 
now stood confronting him, the smile gone from her 
face. 

He drew a long, full breath, as his eyes met hers, 
like some strong diver who is about to plunge into 
unfathomable depths. 

“Victor Mauprat, thief and convict, I have come 
here to kill you,” she continued slowly, her face chang- 
ing its beauty to passion and vindictive repulsion. Save 
for the mouth and the eyes there was no outward token 
of disturbance in the man. He stood looking at her, 
not defiantly, nor yet with the smallest show of appre- 
hension ; but with eyes that were lit up with a strange, 
lurid light of intense pride and love. 

“Why would you kill me f ” he said at length, look- 
ing down on her determined face. “ If, as you assert, 
I am a convict, why should the daughter of Te Papa 
trouble herself? There is an executioner appointed by 
law to punish those who break the law.” 

Te Coro did not reply immediately. Beneath his 
ardent look she felt the throbbing of her heart increase, 
and the warm blood mounting to her neck and brow. 
The resolve to kill him was not one jot less in her 
desire, yet the power and the will was not sufficiently 
strong to do it then and there. “ The law cannot reach 
every vile act and deed,” she answered, still toying 
with her weapon, and held by the magnetic light in 
his eyes. “ The law does not punish the wretch who 
may take it into his head to wreck the life of a virtuous 
woman. Nay, a man may murder fifty innocent, de- 
fenceless women, body and soul, and the law has no 
power to punish him for the crime.” 

“ Whom have I wronged, Te Coro ? ” 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


289 


“Myself, Victor Mauprat,” she replied, flashing upon 
him the full indignation of her look. “I — the Maori 
— the last of Te Papa’s mighty race, confess with 
abject shame that a base slave from the hulks once 
entrapped my love. Ah ! you smile, bat I swear by 
Heaven the wretch shall not go hence save to his 
doom.” 

“ Te Coro ” 

“ Silence ! ” she muttered, through her white set teeth. 
“ You think it was the miserable convict who stole my 
affection? Hot so, Victor Mauprat. .Remember the 
ass who donned the hide of the lion. The convict 
slave personated honesty, courage, manliness. In the 
likeness and image of one who has been all in all to me 
— father, brother, and friend — my heart went out to the- 
outward form and counterpart of him, and not to the 
base copy which lay hid behind the similitude.” 

At that moment there came a low rumbling noise 
like distant thunder. It shook the window-frames 
with a shivering vibrating motion, but it passed un- 
heeded by Te Coro and her companion. 

“ I am Victor Mauprat, jail-bird, felon — what you 
will,” he said, standing before her, and folding his 
arms over his broad chest ; “ I am a man that cannot 
glory in the dark fate which • has fallen to my lot, but 
I would rather be simply what you say of me — convict, 
slave, prison drudge — and have your love, Te Coro, 
than be in reality that Hilton Fernbrook whom I have 
impersonated. Ay, shoot me down, if it so please you. 
See, I am ready,” he cried, baring his breast. “ I love 
you, Te Coro! I love you more ardently, more pas- 
sionately than you can ever dream. Why do you 
pause? Am I so vile, indeed, that the death of a dog 
js not good enough for me? You have everything in 


290 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


your favor to satisfy the revenge you seek for my 
presumptuous iniquity. Come, I will not shirk the 
penalty.” 

Once again there comes that dull, heavy sound on 
the quiet stillness ; this time causing the building to 
quiver with a tremulous motion. A look of astonish- 
ment comes over the stern face of the Maori maiden, 
and softens the hard lines on it. “ There will be a 
storm,” she mutters. 

“ So much the better,” echoes Victor Mauprat, in the 
same low tone. “ Storm or sunshine can matter little 
to such a soulless wretch as I am.” Then there came 
a groan of pain or anguish from the man, which he 
tried in vain to suppress. 

Te Coro looked at him for a moment. “ Ah, you 
are a coward, after all ! ” she said with scornful 
emphasis. 

“Your Maori instinct for revenge has blinded your 
judgment,” he replied, with a scarlet spot on his cheeks. 
“Do not you see that I could defeat your cherished 
project by a blow' of my fist ? We are alone here. If it 
pleased me, I could squeeze out your fresh young life 
ere you could utter a cry for help.” 

“ That is the threat of a boaster and a poltroon. 
You are afraid ! ” 

“No; kill me if you will, Te Coro, but do not taunt 
me ! ” 

“ Or you will kill me ! ” said the girl, drawing back 
and presenting her revolver at his breast. 

'Victor Mauprat gazed at her steadfastly and with 
unwinking eyes. “Why do you not fire?” he said 
presently. 

“ Because my Maori instinct prefers to play with 
you as a cat plays with a mouse, though the saying is 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


‘201 


not applicable in this case. Tell me how you became 
a criminal.” 

His face wore a troubled expression at the change 
in her — a change which passed suddenly from fierce 
vindictive retribution to cool and biting irony. Seating 
himself with a weary sigh, he did not answer, but 
rested his head upon his hands, and let her have full 
scope for her sarcasm. Strange to say, her taunts did 
not move him to reply. She saw all the random shots 
which struck home pictured in his eyes, and in the 
changing color of his face, in the trembling lips, the 
nervous clutch of his fingers, but he remained mute. 
Not by so much as the lifting of his head in sign of 
refutation did he deign to expose what was passing 
within him at her cruel and merciless tornado. None 
but a Maori, baffled apd tormented by her unconquer- 
able love for a man whom she deemed a villain and a 
slave, would have so exhibited the worst attributes of 
her nature. Under these conditions an Englishwoman 
would have let the man go ; her task, to forget him 
as soon as possible, A Frenchwoman would have 
killed him on the spot and without a word, and then 
have cried for him afterwards. With Te Coro, this 
code of procedure became reversed. Her companion’s 
silence, instead of exasperating her, had the opposite 
effect. Her voice lost its stinging tone, nay, grew 
even persuasive, as woman-like she came back to the 
point from which she started. 

“ Will you tell me why they imprisoned you ? Was 
it for murder ? ” 

He rose up and approached where she stood. The 
girl did not move, but looked defiantly at him the while, 
as his tall form towered above her. 

“ Did I commit murder ? ” he echoed, with flashing 


292 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


eyes. “Yes — the world called it murder. But the 
world lied, as it has often lied since the beginning. 
The man called me a swindler and a thief, and I killed 
him.” 

“ Murdered him, say.” 

“No, it was a fair duel with small-swords,” he re- 
butted, straightening himself with something like re- 
sentment at her insinuation. “ I, a poor devil with 
just one sovereign in my purse, tried my fortune at a 
gambling den, ostensibly a club. My mother lay ill in 
Dijon in France. My last gold coin was not sufficient 
to take me to her ; so I sat down and played. Fortune 
smiled — and I won a thousand pounds from one per- 
son. My opponent was an officer of Hussars, a man of 
rank and fashion, with wealthy friends. He lost his 
temper with his money — said I was a cheat and a thief, 
and so far forgot himself as to give me a blow. I do not 
know what was said, or who took sides in- the quarrel. 
There were not many present, but they were his 
friends, as it proved — save one man, Colonel de Roal, 
who vouched for my straightforward play, and urged 
with such persistency my claim to the satisfaction of a 
gentleman, that Captain Vipont consented to meet me 
then and there. It was break of day when we ad- 
journed to a remote patch of spare ground in rear of 
the club. Snow lay on the ground, and there was a 
sharp frost which made the ground slippery beneath 
our feet. My antagonist had the choice of weapons, 
and selected the rapier, several pairs of which were 
procured and brought to the ground. 

“It seemed like a dream to me from the moment I 
received the blow until I found myself face to face with 
my foe. Eager, and burning with a feverish desire to 
punish the insult, I still held myself under perfect con- 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


293 


troi. “ Take care, my lad ; this man is one of the fin- 
est swordsmen in England,” whispered De Roal in my 
ear. “ Keep your guard well up, and lunge straight. 
He means mischief.” 

“ The next moment we crossed swords. There was 
no need for the Colonel’s caution. In a brief space I 
discerned that Captain Vipont was fully master of his 
weapon, and that it would be well with me if I held 
my own. Nevertheless, confidence was mine ; my skill 
was of no mean order. I had a wrist of steel, was in 
full practice, and felt as agile as an untamed panther. 
Here and there, with lightning strokes and passes, our 
pliant blades crossed, and writhed, and interlocked, 
like fiery serpents. My opponent’s rush was both swift 
and terrific, but I met it coolly, and allowed him to ex- 
pend his strength upon my foil. Once only he opened 
his guard to me — then, rapid as the swoop of a hawk, I 
sent my rapier into his arm from wrist to elbow. The 
seconds came between us, but he thrust them back with 
an oath. “ Bind up the scratch,” he said. “ Now I will 
kill this presumptuous fool.’ 

“ I saw he meant to keep his word. In vain Colonel 
de Roal interposed; in vain Captain Yipont’s friends 
pleaded that honor was satisfied. When he confronted 
me again his face was livid with pain ; but he fenced 
more warily than heretofore, and with greater judg- 
ment ; though I soon discovered that his wound placed 
him entirely at my mercy. Perhaps it would have been 
well for me had I pointed this out to him, and refused 
to continue the combat ; but I was smarting under his 
taunts, and the jeers of his companions, and I went on, 
thinking at most to disable him. Alas ! what blind 
fools we are ! Even while the thought was in my 
mind, my opponent slipped, lunged forward upon my 


294 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOIC 

weapon, and rolled over a corpse at my feet the next 
moment.” 

A dull, booming sound, as if the thunder was com- 
ing nearer, came now a third time upon the ears of Te 
Coro and Victor Mauprat, and while they stood, ex- 
pectantly listening, there followed a rushing, rumbling 
noise beneath their feet, which made the building reel 
to its foundation. 

Te Coro laid aside her revolver, and locked her 
shapely hands together. “ You hear the Fire King, Old 
Tarawera ? ” she said in tones that contrasted strange- 
ly with her former manner. “ The Spirit is angry 
with me, maybe, because of my wicked resolve to kill 
you. Tell your story, and let the God answer with his 
tongue of flaming fire. I have spoken.” 

Not so much as by the quivering of an eyelid did the 
Maori withdraw her strained look from his face. In 
every line of her own beautiful features were blended 
superstition and awe, but nothing of fear. 

Mauprat knew that an earthquake had rolled beneath 
their feet and had passed on. To his companion, how- 
ever, it was the enraged growl of the triple Fire-gods 
— Ruawahi, Watauga, and Tarawera — Guardians of 
the Terraces, who had made the solid earth tremble 
with their voices. Spite of her liberal education, the 
old leaven of belief in the supernatural powers of these 
vast, rugged peaks, that were eternally heaving and 
seething with wild unrest, still clung to Te Coro with 
all-pervading influence. Old Tarawera himself had 
spoken out in reproach at the crime she had meditated 
against the man before her, and she relented. The 
black eyes lost their cruel look, and" changed gradually 
to soft glances of sympathy and love. 

Oh, heart of woman ! what a complex fabric — be it 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


295 


of Maori or Pakeha. A man may live a thousand years 
and not comprehend the simplest boor. Who* then, 
shall presume to gauge the capacity and depth of Nat- 
ure’s greatest mystery — woman ? 

As there is but a thin veil between the highest in- 
tellectual genius and a fool, so in like manner is it an 
easy transition from deepest hate to fondest love ; in- 
deed, some wise men have considered that hate is but 
the irrational form of love — the insane state, and that 
people must love before they can hate. 

“ So, it was a fair duel, and not a stab in the dark ? ” 
says the Maori, in that changed voice of hers — soft now 
as the cooing of a dove. “ They told me you were an 
assassin and a thief.” 

“ Fair ? ” echoes the other, with a disdainful wave 
of his arm, that had more in it than the most eloquent 
refutation. “ I could have slain the man twice over 
had I been one-tenth as bloodthirsty as he proved 
himself during the encounter. Skilled swordsman as 
the Captain undoubtedly was, I had a surer eye, and 
my fence had been perfected by the first master in 
Europe. Besides, who could bear a blow and not seek 
to resent it? Had I been a man of the world, my 
course would have been to remain in England, and de- 
mand an inquiry into the circumstances of the unfor- 
tunate duel ; but I fled, or, rather, was hurried out of 
the country by the man who had been my friend.” 

“ Colonel de Roal ? ” 

“Ay, he took me to Paris. “Look here,” he said, 
“you have slain a man who has powerful friends. 
They will run you to earth for it, though it was no 
fault of yours. What do you intend doing?” There 
was nothing to be done but hide myself. By day and 
night I lived the life of a wild beast, being hunted from 


296 THE SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 

place to place by the hounds of the law. At last I was 
arrested, tried, and sentenced to seven years’ penal 
servitude. In less than a year — thanks to the aid of 
De Roal — I was enabled to escape from Portland Prison, 
and also from the country. The Colonel took passage 
for Australia, and I went with him, disguised as his 
servant. It was during the voyage that he unfolded 
his project, that I should change places with Hilton 
Fernbrook.” 

Victor Mauprat paused, for at that moment the 
room in which they stood began to totter and shake 
like a ship at sea when a wave strikes her. Instinct- 
ively Te Coro started forward and clung to him. 
“ Hark again ! ” she cries. “ Rotorua speaks now, and 
the earth trembles.” 

“ It is nothing,” he says, folding his arms round 
her, and she yields to his embrace unresistingly. “We 
will go hence, you and I, Te Coro, out of the busy track 
of men. In some remote corner of the earth, Te Coro 
the Maori and Victor Mauprat can live unmolested by 
the mockeries and wiles of civilization. We can create 
a civilization of our own without its wickedness. Ah ! 
hear Old Rotorua again— he speaks in confirmation of 
my words. Dearest Te Coro, am I less a man than he 
whom for five years I have personated ? Am I less 
tall or fair to look upon ? Is not my courage as high, 
my education as good, and my love as strong ? Re- 
verse our positions. Place Hilton Fernbrook within 
the convict chains that bound Victor Mauprat. Tempt 
him with the bait of freedom, wealth, position, at one 
fell swoop, and place the means of attaining these 
things within his grasp. Men whose lives have been 
one smooth round of pleasure and enjoyment know 
nothing of the storm-battle waged by strong men 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 297 

tempted. If I have sinned, I have been punished. So, 
let it pass.” 

While he spoke there arose a lurid glare from the 
highest peak of Old Tarawera, which quickly grew and 
widened until it seemed as if the infernal regions were 
situated below. It lit up the adjacent summits of 
Ruawahi and Watanga, from which the rolling columns 
of smoke began to ascend and form a canopy of black- 
ness overhead. Beneath, Ti Terrata, the White Ter- 
race, shone like a vast staircase of fretwork marble. 
Its infinite circles of dull white segments, running into 
each other for hundreds of feet, were lit up as clearly 
as by the morning sun. To right and left of the 
burning volcano, rugged precipices yawned, with 
scarred peaks and pinnacles looming in the background. 
From the Fairy Baths of the Terrace, upward to the 
gloomy Mount, with its tongues of fire half a mile wide 
and high, the sight was in truth appalling. 

A noiseless step had glided into the room, and look- 
ing up, Victor Mauprat beheld Peter Dusk, the de- 
tective, at his side. 

“You are my prisoner,” said the latter, in a low 
tone, laying his hand on the co'nvict’s shoulder. 
“ Come ! ” and he pointed to the door. 

Neither of the trio ever reached that open doorway, 
for, sudden as the thunder-clap, the building rose in 
the air, as if it had been no more than a toy — then 
toppled over with a loud crash, leaving the place where 
it had been a moment before a gaping chasm of smoke 
and steam. 


And the eruptions burst forth in all their terrible 
power and grandeur on that night. From Taurauga 


298 the SHADOW OF HILTON FERNBROOK. 


to Tonga’s Peak, the whole Wairoa lay enveloped in 
opaque blackness, lit up at intervals by vast balls of 
fire, that shot out of the gaping crater of Tarawera, 
with a deafening roar never to be forgotten by those 
who heard it. 

Another Sodom and Gomorrah had arisen around 
Tarawera, and every living thing began to flee from 
the awful scene. By one o’clock a. m. volunteers and 
Rebel Maoris were flying along the roads seeking 
shelter from the terrible hail of stones and dust which 
rained thickly down upon them everywhere, crushing 
the weak and fainting and retarding the strong. There 
was no order among the refugees — each strove to save 
himself. 

From out the roaring noises round them — from out 
the infernal glare, radiating and spreading in all direc- 
tions, and the reeling, groaning earth beneath their 
feet — Colonel de Roal, Joe Sharpe alias the Ferret, 
and the giant Blake fled towards the sea-coast. 

“ Is it the Judgment Day ? ” cried Sharpe, with pallid 
lips. And at that instant, like a shot from a gun, a 
- huge boulder struck him down into a mangled, shape- 
less corpse. 

The Colonel turned, and a ghastly smile came over 
the thin set mouth as he looked. “Onward to the 
coast ! ” he shouted in the ear of the giant, and the 
pair strode forward through the wild glimmer, the 
thunder-rocked ravines, with the dark volcanic showers 
rattling round them on all sides, and rendering their 
path perilous in the extreme. 

Suddenly Drummond Blake uttered a cry. A ball 
of burning lava struck him and broke his legs as if 
they had been no more than rotten twigs, and he went 
down, never to see the bright sun again in this world. 


NE PLUS ULTRA. 


24)9 


In vain De Roal tried to raise his fallen comrade. The 
dust and stones rained down more fiercely than before. 
In a few minutes they formed the giant’s grave, and 
smothered him where he had fallen. 

Morning found the Colonel struggling on through 
fire and desolation, but there was no morning here, for 
the air was black as night, illumined only by Mount 
Tarawera’s gigantic tongue of flame. Reeling onward, 
faint and weary, he came upon the figure of a man 
kneeling beside his dead son. It was Te Iluna, the 
Maori. Tohunga of great renown bent reverently over 
the body of Titori, the Rebel leader. 

The hoary savage turned his bloodshot eyes upon 
the Pakeha. 

“ White devil ! this is thy bloody work,” he cried, 
and drawing forth his tomahawk, he cleft the fainting 
sinner to the chops. 


X 



























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THE SHADOW 


OF 

HILTON FERNBROOK 


J\ Romance of maoriland 


BY 

ATHA WESTBURY 







NEW YORK 

New Amsterdam Book Company 

156 FIFTH AVENUE 


London— CHATTO & WINDUS 

















































































































































































































































































































































































































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